Almost
"Almost"
I once knew a woman
who I never thought very wise,
who once said she had a simple credo:
"Life without regrets."
Perhaps she could forget her past
and dance from the present to the future
in a perfect two-step, never missing the beat
of time's music, but I never could,
and perhaps that is why I don't know her anymore.
To me, it seems, life has a foundation of regret:
we made our trade with the angels,
freedom for perfection,
and so life is a lifetime of freely made mistakes,
a path of imperfection
whose shining moments are made brighter
by the long trail of unspoken hesitations
that constitute experience.
I could never give up my regrets,
any more than I could give my eyes or spleen;
memories of a backyard that should have been an airport,
a nickel that could have quenched my father's thirst
but instead traded for five Tootsie Rolls,
the lunch that should have been a lifetime-
these things have made me who I am.
Yet I sometimes wonder if she was wise after all.
My world is a hand-lettered page
with ruled lines, like cell bars,
seperating experience and action.
And it seems that so many more stanzas
come from failure, regret, than victory.
I walked the woman of little wisdom to her door,
one warm May evening,
sharing the last of the night's quiet laughter.
She said it had been a beautiful night
and danced inside;
I'm sure it was enough for her.
But it leaves me wondering still
which of us has lived correctly:
her, with her forgotten pleasure,
a man she barely recalls,
or myself, standing on her doorstep,
staring at the moon with one word on my lips:
"Almost."
-6/3/06
I once knew a woman
who I never thought very wise,
who once said she had a simple credo:
"Life without regrets."
Perhaps she could forget her past
and dance from the present to the future
in a perfect two-step, never missing the beat
of time's music, but I never could,
and perhaps that is why I don't know her anymore.
To me, it seems, life has a foundation of regret:
we made our trade with the angels,
freedom for perfection,
and so life is a lifetime of freely made mistakes,
a path of imperfection
whose shining moments are made brighter
by the long trail of unspoken hesitations
that constitute experience.
I could never give up my regrets,
any more than I could give my eyes or spleen;
memories of a backyard that should have been an airport,
a nickel that could have quenched my father's thirst
but instead traded for five Tootsie Rolls,
the lunch that should have been a lifetime-
these things have made me who I am.
Yet I sometimes wonder if she was wise after all.
My world is a hand-lettered page
with ruled lines, like cell bars,
seperating experience and action.
And it seems that so many more stanzas
come from failure, regret, than victory.
I walked the woman of little wisdom to her door,
one warm May evening,
sharing the last of the night's quiet laughter.
She said it had been a beautiful night
and danced inside;
I'm sure it was enough for her.
But it leaves me wondering still
which of us has lived correctly:
her, with her forgotten pleasure,
a man she barely recalls,
or myself, standing on her doorstep,
staring at the moon with one word on my lips:
"Almost."
-6/3/06