Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano wonât work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still havenât called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
Itâs winter again: the skyâs a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heatâs on too high in here and I canât turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
Iâve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kissâwe want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and Iâm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that Iâm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
I read this poem yesterday, and I havenât been able to stop thinking about it.
I donât know if a poem has ever explained so well the contradiction between âthat yearningââthat part of you that wants and wants and wantsâand reality. That yearning is always there: âWe want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want / whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kissâwe want more and more and then more of it.â I donât think that part of you ever dies, because itâs what propels you forward. But thatâs not âwhat the living do.â What the living do is leave crusty dishes and forget or refuse to call the plumber, drop a bag of groceries on the street and watch the bag break, spill coffee down their sleeves. What the living do is live imperfect lives, each day.
âThis is what the living do.â
The speaker addresses this poem to Johnny, who did the opposite. He stopped parking the car and slamming the car door shut in the cold; he stopped living. The speaker says this is âWhat you finally gave up.â He gave up all of the small, meaningless tasks we have to do every day.
But he also gave up on the small moments of clarity we sometimes have. The speaker says: âBut there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, / say, the window of the corner video store, and Iâm gripped by a cherishing so deep / for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that Iâm speechless: / I am living. I remember you.â
The speaker continues on despite her hurt and loss and longing, and she finds âa cherishing so deepâ for the reality of her chapped life. Because, âThis is it.â This is life. What the living must do is what the speaker finally does: she finds a way to appreciate her life. She doesnât give up.