A Sail to Great Island

Spring

61 Spring 1. Flowers in Wartime These daffodils in a blue vase, the ones my daughter gave us, like old-fashioned telephones, their pretty flower faces leaning outward in all directions, as though eager to save us by collecting news: they come out of the night of their blue vase, the inky light, and spread their curiosity, their eager concern. How is it in the world of men? they ask from the world of flowers. Their quick souls may be pure, because their time’s so brief, but they are here when we call for them. They seem so centered, their symmetrical faces with no ups or downs. They incline their heads with momentary insight. Remember color, they tell us. Remember delicacy. Remember the fine little things you may be neglecting, and sniff our petals. That’s air from another planet. Don’t you like it better? 62 2. Car Ride, First Day of Spring Dan and I leave late for synagogue. Why does he go? Because his girlfriend (who goes to church) approves. But on the ride over, the gray pelt of the woods showing the first red tinge of spring, he talks about moving up to Vermont (where she lives) and I reply by suggesting he might consider therapy. No, he says, he wouldn’t want to tell her. No guile, no secrets. In our synagogue’s loft, a circle of gray heads explore the branches of mystical texts, the more minds the better. Godliness begins in humility. That said, how does it apply? On the ride back, do I try to find a way to persuade him, or practice the small courtesy of silence, and give him a chance to breathe, to think? The air says, He’ll survive, even if he moves up there. 63 3. A Visit from the Tree Man Easy to understand how Chekhov’s characters must feel when we survey our yard with Pavel, the tree man, and he shows us the cedar hit by lightning, its bark peeled, or the crab apple, hollowed out, ready to slam into the house in a strong north wind. Our strength is failing, our years are numbered, and now even the trees are aging and need care. We stand here hailing our posterity. We’re sorry to leave you these acres of dead wood and scrambled branches. It’s true old trees bloom with heartbreaking loveliness. So we struggle, in our feeble way, as you will. Like you we wished for a simpler life than this one turned out to be, and yet feel grateful for the spring, each time it appears, and plant a few saplings that won’t look good for years. 64 4. An Errand Approaching the bank, with its mulched plantings, its instant strip mall landscaping, I feel once more that I’m reliving an errand my father must have done for me. I can’t remember the specifics. But once again I’m giving money to my son. I’m cheerful with the young teller when she tells me it will hit his account today. He’s somewhere up north. His new landlord, a fellow who works in construction, has asked Dan to pay first and last month’s rent. I can see the check in Dan’s crab-like writing in that man’s hand and it’s a good check. It hasn’t bounced. Indirectly it’s like a letter from me. I’m sure my dad did this errand dozens of times. Making deposits. The sums forgotten. Incalculable. He’d sign, and it was done. 65 5. Travel “Going on Nan’s painting trip?” her student asks. She’s staring hard at me, as though she’d like to come along— while I’m mostly nervous, I tell her. This feeling lasts till departure: like preparing for death. The wrong attitude, I know. Terrible to be so self-delighting I don’t want to leave my reading chair, or the screen of my computer. And just now the garden is fighting for my attention, the cherries like veiled brides, the peonies shooting up near the door, their buds the size of marbles waiting to unfold—after we’re gone. Aunt Molly loved them, and now so do I, and I recall the marvel of their thick old-lady perfume, and think of the...