words, just thoughts,
of which a chance one sparkles, and we laugh.
There’ll come a day, I fear, when you are outof reach and memory is all of you
I have; and then another day when that
is gone. That morning I’ll awake and rise
and eat an ordinary breakfast, dress
and go to leave—to find that I forgot
a certain necessary something, just
my comb, my keys, a paper, or a book—
a light makes darkness clearly black: a part
of me is lost. And then I’ll wonder what
you were and where you were and try to reason
out an emptiness and hunt for nonexistent
strings to pull you back in view.
What then? These words I’ve understood and truths
I’ve known because of you, these lonely fires
that add a little light and comfort on
the mind’s black stretching beach of night,
the shifting tide forgetfulness will rise
and snuff them out, when it has carried you,
who lit them off to sea. What fumbling hand
and wet will kindle up the blazes then?
Walking downstairs with Melissa to lunch, I told her I liked the poem, which was true, but that wasn’t my main feeling. Mainly I was uncomfortable that she was writing poems for me at all.
After lunch I motioned Ari to come to my room and asked him what he thought of Melissa. Ari was always polite. I might as well have asked him what he thought of lunch. I showed him the poem. He read it carefully.
“It’s good,” he said. “Take the first line, ‘We’re all alone—at least the others are.’ It works two ways. The others are asleep, but they’re alone too. And the line ‘the mind’s black stretching beach of night.’ It’s one foot short, so you have to say it slowly, you have to
stretch
it out.” He saw other things I hadn’t seen. Then he asked me if I was going with Melissa.
“She’s all yours,” I said.
The plan was to have drinks on the bayside porch at seven and move to the ocean beach at eight. Zina and Mrs. Mertz brought one guest, a man about fifty named Max Pondoro. He was the only one dressed up—white slacks, brown and white shoes, paisley shirt, and navy blazer. Mrs. Mertz herself had caught the spirit of the thing—she came barefoot, in jeans and a man’s frayed shirt. Zina was proper in bell-bottom slacks and a pale blue blouse.
Max Pondoro kissed Mother’s hand and said how kind she was to have invited him. He kissed Melissa’s hand and said what a pretty young lady she was. He bowed slightly as he shook Father’s hand, which brought out Father’s big smile. Only Ari was up to Mr. Pondoro—he bowed back.
I left the porch at seven-thirty to start the fire. Zina came with me. “My mother is a genius,” she said. “Did you see Max’s way with your mother?”
“No.” I had, of course.
“Well, watch at the party. Mother told him to play up to her.”
“Why did she do that?”
“To make her feel attractive. You have to admit, Max was made for the job.”
“My mother feels perfectly attractive. She
is
perfectly attractive. She doesn’t need some dummy kissing her hand.”
“Misha! My mother is trying to be nice. She felt your mother was upset and needed a little perking up. That’s all.”
“She
was
upset, and it’s over.”
“Misha, you’re mad at us. We love you, and we love your mother. Come here!” She pulled me to her, put her arms around me, and hugged me. Then she held me away and said, “All right?”
“All right,” I said. I knew she was doing to me what Max Pondoro was doing to Mother. But it
was
all right. Zina’s body was soft and hard, and I could smell the scent of her soap.
When we got the fire started I pulled out a tarred board that was smoking. Otherwise the fire was fine, big enough tobe fun, but not so hot you couldn’t cook over it. Besides franks, hamburgers, and marshmallows, there was wine and beer. Mrs. Mertz brought a thermos of martinis, and Father a bottle of scotch. The air was cool and dry, and there were no bugs. We sang rounds, “Frère Jacques,” “Dona Nobis Pacem.” Everyone
of which a chance one sparkles, and we laugh.
There’ll come a day, I fear, when you are outof reach and memory is all of you
I have; and then another day when that
is gone. That morning I’ll awake and rise
and eat an ordinary breakfast, dress
and go to leave—to find that I forgot
a certain necessary something, just
my comb, my keys, a paper, or a book—
a light makes darkness clearly black: a part
of me is lost. And then I’ll wonder what
you were and where you were and try to reason
out an emptiness and hunt for nonexistent
strings to pull you back in view.
What then? These words I’ve understood and truths
I’ve known because of you, these lonely fires
that add a little light and comfort on
the mind’s black stretching beach of night,
the shifting tide forgetfulness will rise
and snuff them out, when it has carried you,
who lit them off to sea. What fumbling hand
and wet will kindle up the blazes then?
Walking downstairs with Melissa to lunch, I told her I liked the poem, which was true, but that wasn’t my main feeling. Mainly I was uncomfortable that she was writing poems for me at all.
After lunch I motioned Ari to come to my room and asked him what he thought of Melissa. Ari was always polite. I might as well have asked him what he thought of lunch. I showed him the poem. He read it carefully.
“It’s good,” he said. “Take the first line, ‘We’re all alone—at least the others are.’ It works two ways. The others are asleep, but they’re alone too. And the line ‘the mind’s black stretching beach of night.’ It’s one foot short, so you have to say it slowly, you have to
stretch
it out.” He saw other things I hadn’t seen. Then he asked me if I was going with Melissa.
“She’s all yours,” I said.
The plan was to have drinks on the bayside porch at seven and move to the ocean beach at eight. Zina and Mrs. Mertz brought one guest, a man about fifty named Max Pondoro. He was the only one dressed up—white slacks, brown and white shoes, paisley shirt, and navy blazer. Mrs. Mertz herself had caught the spirit of the thing—she came barefoot, in jeans and a man’s frayed shirt. Zina was proper in bell-bottom slacks and a pale blue blouse.
Max Pondoro kissed Mother’s hand and said how kind she was to have invited him. He kissed Melissa’s hand and said what a pretty young lady she was. He bowed slightly as he shook Father’s hand, which brought out Father’s big smile. Only Ari was up to Mr. Pondoro—he bowed back.
I left the porch at seven-thirty to start the fire. Zina came with me. “My mother is a genius,” she said. “Did you see Max’s way with your mother?”
“No.” I had, of course.
“Well, watch at the party. Mother told him to play up to her.”
“Why did she do that?”
“To make her feel attractive. You have to admit, Max was made for the job.”
“My mother feels perfectly attractive. She
is
perfectly attractive. She doesn’t need some dummy kissing her hand.”
“Misha! My mother is trying to be nice. She felt your mother was upset and needed a little perking up. That’s all.”
“She
was
upset, and it’s over.”
“Misha, you’re mad at us. We love you, and we love your mother. Come here!” She pulled me to her, put her arms around me, and hugged me. Then she held me away and said, “All right?”
“All right,” I said. I knew she was doing to me what Max Pondoro was doing to Mother. But it
was
all right. Zina’s body was soft and hard, and I could smell the scent of her soap.
When we got the fire started I pulled out a tarred board that was smoking. Otherwise the fire was fine, big enough tobe fun, but not so hot you couldn’t cook over it. Besides franks, hamburgers, and marshmallows, there was wine and beer. Mrs. Mertz brought a thermos of martinis, and Father a bottle of scotch. The air was cool and dry, and there were no bugs. We sang rounds, “Frère Jacques,” “Dona Nobis Pacem.” Everyone
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