Meanwhile, between Crises it is necessary to observe that the sky has been a particular shade of blue for two days now; and that the Labrador stinks characteristically of pond water; and that the sun, ah, yes, the sun, minding its own business, misses this leaf and hits that one; and the mind of my elder daughter, in its quaint intellectual corsets, cheers me as much as the rest of her (uncorseted); and pushing, once, up from the grimy sleet of a Long Island airport, the Whisperjet broke through the winter ceiling and came out above it where the sun, minding its own business as usual, was making alpine landscapes on the roof in every blinding shade of white except for white; and that (although I myself prefer exuberance) there is something to be said, perhaps, for the strict aesthetics of a power failure. Matins The cat, the damn fool cat was the one I wanted to get shut of – and it's still around. Someone else is gone. Obviously a mistake. But you don't make mistakes, do you, God? I could have spared the cat. I could have – could have done lots of things. Could have inquired, pressed, investigated, snooped, done everything he disliked most. Instead I listened, waited, respected, waited, listened, and, always, respected his space, his privacy. Last night was full of bright ideas, all of them twenty-two days too late.
Poetry by Nam Adams
This Is Why Because I am alive and glad of it, because the days are gifts although I did not always know it, because I might never have been alive, because I did not die in childhood, I lived and was glad of it and wanted to live more. Because I lived, you lived, although I feared for you. Because you lived, the pain was unimportant, I paid no attention to it, I failed to heal the pain. Because I kept on living, others lived, because they lived I tried to keep on living. Because life and the days are gifts and I thought you knew it, because I had learned to live with difficulty, because I loved you and trusted you to live ... I trusted wrong. I failed to keep you living, I failed to give you days that were gifts. The whole world failed to keep you living. I could not thank the gift of you enough, I did not pay enough attention to your pain. Because your courage followed a skewed compass my heart broke and my tongue froze, watching you. I did not know, I did not know your road. Because it is right that I grieve when the leaves whisper, grieve when I remember your love or when I remember my love for you, grieve when I give your books away, because it is right that I grieve for my ignorance, it is right that I grieve for what you knew and for what you did not know, for what we knew and did not know. Because you did not live, you achieved death. Because I did not die I achieved life, I did not die, have not died yet. Because I live with all these gifts of days, I would divide them with you if I could. Because I am glad to have the days, because your pain tempts me to be ashamed of pleasure and I refuse that evil, because I love you and I love my days, I love the days I had with you. I love the days that are so full of living time and space they stretch and creak. Because I love you and will always love you, because I thank God that you lived at all, I offer you my peace, the only gift I have for you, this year, this time, this place.