Better than Better than Before: Notes from the Shrine, 9.1.24

And just like that the fence goes on, one hand clapping. The sound of no sound, the nothingness that was already here. Which we define or can’t define or are defined by for our short while.

I’m back at The Shrine, Sunday late morning, a pleasant breeze in the shade a little ways down from the St. Francis Center entrance. My mom and my brother were already here with my dad outside when I arrived. They left a few minutes ago.

I clipped my dad’s fingernails. They had gotten long, and were quite dirty. He was doing the clipping initially but he has always cut his nails so short. So it was not a surprise when he snipped a bit of cuticle or underbed—something that wasn’t nail.

I took over the task. They’re not as short as he wants them to be; not as short as he would’ve done them himself, back when. But they’re better than they were before and that will have to do. That seems to be the offer on the table when it comes to the work I do. Like the concrete patio/stoop patching I did out at Farm earlier this week. Egads, was that really earlier this week? It wasn’t perfection.

I made one rookie mistake that I should not have made: smoothing the concrete with a sponge before it had set up enough, resulting in the removal of the topmost 3/16 of an inch or so, sponging away too much sand and cement, leaving the gravel loose and in need of removal, meaning ultimately the new surface was not as smooth and even as it could have been, should have been. B told me by text, “I’m sure it’s better than before.” And, yes, it is. But I want better than better than before.

I received a rejection letter email a moment ago. Five poems I submitted to a publication only two days ago. I guess it didn’t take them long to decide they didn’t want what I had to offer.

Damn. It hurts every time. It stings. It smarts. I just want something good and random to happen. I guess I need to make better luck.

I haven’t submitted much work this year. Six or seven times, one a chapbook manuscript that didn’t make somebody’s cut. I’ve only got two submissions outstanding and one I won’t hear on for a while. I gotta pick myself up and start again. Or quit my poems altogether for a while and work on my Shrine memoir (this book). Or I need to try to self-publish a chapbook on Amazon and see if anyone has any interest. Curses.

More and more I conclude that the good and random moments of my life have already happened. My share was front-loaded. My task is to grind it out from here. Make the best use of what I’ve already got(ten). If I want to write about it, great. Fine. Knock yourself out. But don’t expect anyone to read it.

A chickadee visits a nearby feeder. There’s your random, happy event. If you can’t find delight in that, you’re doomed.

There is no quick and painless
because there is no painless.
The stool is very high
and there is only one way down.
Gravity turns us all into rock.
Our vanity suggests we have
a story to tell but ours is
all the same repeat repeat repeat
of dirty nails restless sleep
and the bruise of returning
once again to the hard fold
of this inexplicable earth

---

We head to the lunchroom and Bob is ready to lighten the mood.

“Well, I don’t know who set this up,” he says, “but I said, ‘Fine, I’ll go.’ And I did. Just walked all morning.”

Dominique helped him into his seat but he’s going to need assistance eating before long. Once he was served he was eating empty forkfuls of today’s ham. Helen’s daughter Pat comes in and says, “I am so excited to be back in this room.”

Originally Dominique had brought Bob in only for him to say, “I thought you were taking me to pee.” She sighed, rolled her eyes, and took him back to his room. Then led him on his walker back from A hall, down the hallway to the dining room, and eventually to his seat. He started eating and wasn’t able to get the chunks of ham onto his fork.

Then Karin came to get him for bloodwork. It’s an outside phlebotomist that collects the blood. When they’re here to take it, that becomes top priority. So Karin put Bob’s food back on his tray, got him up and helped him get his hands on his walker, and led him back out of here, one hand guiding the walker the other hand holding his tray. I didn’t offer to help. I knew she’d say no. Pat offered to carry the tray, Karin declined. I had just begun to do the drink service when Karin came in. I said I’d be happy to serve some drinks but she said I didn’t need to do that. She administered some meds and then did the drink service.

So that’s all I will have to write about Bob today. It’s 12:50. I’ll get my dad out of here. To where?

“Outside?” I ask him.

He points up.

The smaller lady at the first table hears me ask my dad if he wants to go outside.

“I wanna do that,” she says, “can I do that?”

Donna. She’s sharp. Quiet, but sharp. All I can do is give her a small polite smile that says, “Sorry.” She lives on B Hall next door to my dad. She had Covid in August as well; might have been the last person on B to come out of isolation.

The residents are beginning to wheel themselves out of here. Pat gets up to get Tony Hill some lemonade. And then some coffee for Genevieve.

Outside, the clouds are unusual and beautiful. Lenticular? A random, quiet blessing in the early afternoon sky.