In the Eyes of the World
In the eyes of the world, I haven’t accomplished much. My aunt and uncle said I should do something practical. “Be a nurse,” they said. Blood makes me queasy (I saw plenty of my mother’s blood, growing up), and am hyper-sensitive to smell. I wouldn’t last ten minutes.
In the eyes of the world, I am expendable. A baby boomer, product of a nation struggling to regain normality, an aging populace some nice young Floridian said should probably be culled (he was playing on the beach, I thin he’s sick now).
In the eyes of the world, I’ve made no lasting contribution. I haven’t cured a horrible disease or invented a whimsical time saver. I grow exquisite flowers but every year they die and I must begin again. I write thoughtful poetry on ‘Medium’ but mostly no one comments. Now and then I get my clarinet out, faithful companion for 50 years. My great joy (besides my family, my greatest joy) is photography, which will live on long after I am gone. If I didn’t have all these pictures I couldn’t remember the moments, sad as that may be. I have a feeble visual memory.
In the eyes of the world, I test poorly, so am lacking in intelligence (my own father called me stupid). My cousins never invited me to their Scrabble (insert any word but ‘game’ here) table (being spared was a blessing. One less place to be ridiculed (covertly, of course, but I’ve always been astute, which is a blessing and a curse).
In the eyes of the world, I think too much and speak too often. I am a bit too confident in my opinions. A bit too happy with my appearance (this, after an eating disorder which nearly killed me. I’d say a rather pleasant change).
In the eyes of the world, my simple life won’t be remembered. Not enough money, fame, prestige, connections. No matter. In the eyes of Love, in that great mirror, no Love is ever forgotten.
LBM 4–3–2020
