A WIDER WORLD THAN THIS ONE

The thought has crossed my mind

That I couldn’t survive

Past the county line

For more than a day.

I wonder if the world

Is limited to the walls

Of my office.

But when I close my eyes

I want to believe

That there’s a wider world

Than what I see.

I want to open my eyes

And see the waves

Lapping gently on the sand

At Virgin Gorda.

I want to sniff

And smell the lavender

Blossoming and bettering

Provence and Lyon.

When I turn my head

I want my jaw to drop

As it does whenever I go

To Times Square or Sunset Boulevard.

A life of relentless summer

And thudding sameness

Is no life at all.

Wind has to blow

And release the golden leaves.

Snow has to fall

And turn cardinals into beacons.

The world has to be wider

Than the little portion

I see every day.

I just know it.

An October Day in Florida

I remember that Sunday in October.

It was as glorious and bountiful

as any you could have ever imagined.

The heat and humidity that usually accompany such a day in Florida

Were nowhere to be found.

When you stepped out into the glowing day,

you were kissed by the sunshine,

And you were as happy to see it as a family member

you hadn’t seen in many a moon.

As far as the eye could see, there were cobalt blue skies

punctuated by little white clouds,

barely perceptible to the naked eye.

There was enough of a breeze to make you smile,

as you do when a puppy licks your cheeks.

It buffeted your hair and made the trees sway

like dancers behind a vaudeville singer.

Walking around on that October Sunday in Florida

made you feel aglow, like you’re supposed to walk around being.

For me, it was close enough to my birthday

that I felt like I had received an early gift from Nature herself.

I closed my eyes and wondered how it could be better.

Maybe about ten or fifteen degrees cooler, I reasoned.

Maybe I’m driving through the sloping streets where

I grew up.

Maybe the leaves are the brightest oranges and yellows in the world.

Just like I’m told they were

The day I came home after I was born.

MORSEL

Your lover places a little

Chocolate chip

On the tip

Of your outstretched tongue

And you gratefully retract it.

But you don’t dare

Chew on the chocolate chip

On your tongue’s tip.

You just let the morsel

Sit there.

For five seconds.

Ten seconds.

Twenty to a steadfast heart.

Long enough for the

Chocolate

To melt in your mouth

And become part of you.

Just like your lover will be

When she gives you

A kiss far sweeter

Than chocolate.

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A very peculiar phenomenon happens to me about once a year and bears sharing with you, so I hope you forgive me if it sounds at all like I’m trying to sort myself out. At least once a year for the past three years, someone in the public eye whom I didn’t follow dies unexpectedly and I find myself quite stunned, without knowing precisely why.

Over two years ago, readers of this space will recall that I was shocked at the death of the actor Natasha Richardson, despite maybe having seen portions of one film of hers. My reaction to that distressing event is found here: http://mmcilvain.blogspot.com/2009/03/something-for-natasha-some-years-ago.html

Last November, when I received word that another actor, Jill Clayburgh, had died of leukemia, I couldn’t get her out of my mind for two days. I’d only ever seen two films of Clayburgh’s: Silver Streak and her signature role in An Unmarried Woman. I recall posting a certain scene from the latter film on my Facebook page and beholding Clayburgh’s porcelain face.

Which leads me to today, when I found out that Dan Wheldon, a race car driver who had won two Indianapolis 500’s, was killed in a fiery and, by all accounts, remarkably nasty 15-car wreck in a race in Las Vegas. Now, I understand that this is the risk you run when you get behind the wheel of an open wheel race-car going 225 miles an hour. But the suddenness and finality of it are wrenching to say the least.

So why am I shocked about this? Maybe because Wheldon was very close to my age. He was thirty-three, which is what I’ll be in about two weeks. He had a two year old child, and that’s unsettling enough. Or it could be that this unfolded before a network television audience over ABC, and the trauma that those who watched either there or at the racetrack in person will take months or years to undo. Mind you, I did not watch this unfold, nor do I wish to. Video of the event is apparently on Youtube, but for me to attach it would be exploitative.

And in answer to the larger question, why do I grieve—for lack of a word—these disparate people who I did not follow, that I was no particular fan of, but whose accomplishments were many and meaningful, I can guess at a couple of things. One is that since they were in the public eye and had cameras trained on them for large portions of their lives, I did not expect to see them go. Richardson’s death and in particular Wheldon’s death were violent and unexpected—recall that Richardson had suffered delayed head trauma whilst learning to ski; Clayburgh did well keeping her battle with Leukemia private. But all three deaths had my jaw dropping.

Another theory is a little more prosaic, but easier for me to subscribe to: I am told that I am innately empathetic. Tomorrow morning, I don’t even know how many people will pick up the morning paper, read about the Wheldon tragedy, think to themselves, “Gee, that’s unfortunate”, and forget it at least until it’s brought up again. But think again of the people who watched the horrific wreck at the racetrack, or those who watched it on live television. They’ll have nightmares for a long time to come. And I daren’t contemplate Wheldon’s wife and child, who will miss him now and forever.

And who knows? Tomorrow morning, Dan Wheldon’s death may be the furthest thing from my mind as I commute to my office. But I couldn’t let this calamity go unnoticed. Who can say why the leaving of certain lives touches or distresses other people. And how in the world can you find the words to comfort yourself, even if you didn’t know that person well or at all. It’s very hard to make sense of the senseless.