I HAVE MADE MY WORLD SMALL

I have made my world small. This process began at birth, when I turned one way and refused to turn the other way. I heard voices beseeching me but there was nothing there. I knew it. That continued. I’d read a sentence of a book and stop. I’d walk out of a movie after one scene, a meal after one course. I lacked learning and sophistication. Any adventure was anathema. That continued through young adulthood, through maturity, through middle age. There was not a single choice I made along the way that helped me feel as if I might be growing, and while I did marry, while I did have a child, I did nothing in their direction either. The other day I turned ninety. That afternoon, the family doctor paid a house call and informed me, with rather less sadness than I would have preferred, that my days are numbered. My son came to sit with me when the doctor left. “I have my my world small,” I said, and explained what I have explained here. From the corner of my eye I saw him touch a finger to his chin. He is a wise child of sixty. “Is it possible,” he said, “that you are so receptive to the smallest moment, the smallest change in the space around you, the beat of a butterfly wing, the descent of a leaf, an expression on a face, a single musical note, that you are forever at capacity and wary of overload?” I didn’t turn toward him but I smiled. He gets all the credit in the world. When I am gone — tomorrow or the day after — I want to be remembered not only the way he is remembering me, but the way I will be from that day forward. In eternal darkness I will be placid and satisfied. It will be just enough. 

©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas