The Ways We Remember

Weekly wisdom to bring you home in 2 minutes, or less.

A SHORT STORY

This past weekend, Anastasiia and I celebrated my Mom's birthday through small acts of remembering. She would have turned 75 on Saturday.

We had dinner at one of her favorite restaurants, LongHorn Steakhouse. We shared stories and looked through old photos.

One of my favorite rituals since her passing is stopping by Panera, entering her phone number into the kiosk, and ordering a small chocolate chip cookie. For just a moment, the screen displays her name, "H Mills," almost as if she is right around the corner, waiting to celebrate with me.

As I share this with you, I am amazed at how much of our lives are held together by the small rituals we create with one another. They seem so ordinary while we are living them, yet they become sacred once someone is gone.

How I would give anything to call my Mom as I turn down the street to my apartment, just to hear her answer the phone and ask, "How's it going in New York City?"

As I often wonder aloud in this newsletter, what is left behind long after we are gone?

Perhaps this week, you and I can reflect on the ways we remember one another.

Or even on all the invisible ways we hold each other up.

A POEM

“The Gift” by Li-Young Lee

To pull the metal splinter from my palm
my father recited a story in a low voice.
I watched his lovely face and not the blade.
Before the story ended, he'd removed
the iron sliver I thought I'd die from.

I can't remember the tale,
but hear his voice still, a well
of dark water, a prayer.
And I recall his hands,
two measures of tenderness
he laid against my face,
the flames of discipline
he raised above my head.

Had you entered that afternoon
you would have thought you saw a man
planting something in a boy's palm,
a silver tear, a tiny flame.
Had you followed that boy
you would have arrived here,
where I bend over my wife's right hand.

Look how I shave her thumbnail down
so carefully she feels no pain.
Watch as I lift the splinter out.
I was seven when my father
took my hand like this,
and I did not hold that shard
between my fingers and think,
Metal that will bury me,
christen it Little Assassin,
Ore Going Deep for My Heart.
And I did not lift up my wound and cry,
Death visited here!
I did what a child does
when he's given something to keep.
I kissed my father.

Grateful,

Michael