I stalked her
in the grocery store: her crown
of snowy braids held in place by a great silver clip,
her erect bearing, radiating tenderness,
the way she placed yogurt and avocados in her basket,
beaming peace like the North Star.
I wanted to ask, “What aisle did you find
your serenity in, do you know how
to be married for 50 years, or how to live alone,
excuse me for interrupting, but you seem to possess
some knowledge that makes the earth burn and turn on its axis.”
But we don’t request these things from strangers
nowadays. So I said “I love your hair.”
— Alison Luterman, “I Confess”
You may have noticed I took a week off from writing in this space. To be honest, a few weeks of pouring heavy feelings onto the page turned out to be pretty draining. There was nothing much left to pour. Many thanks to our managing editor, Samuel X. Cicci, for covering for me with a light-hearted column about … well, bugs. A dose of humor every once in a while never hurts.
Anyhow, the above poem came to mind in my off time, as I’ve spent several days alone in the home in which my grandparents lived before they both passed away last summer. It’s a modest trailer near the county line in Greenwood, Mississippi, where the sky is wide and the stars are bright and the thunderstorms shake the ground and echo for miles between the trees across the flatlands. After writing “Death is a Door” a couple weeks ago, I found myself longing for some serenity — the kind that perhaps only comes with age and grace and a change in perspective. So I thought maybe I’d try to tap into some of that knowledge that makes the Earth burn and turn on its axis.
The first weekend, I waded in a creek and learned that quicksand is a real-life threat, not just something people stumbled upon in treacherous landscapes in 1980s movies. I naively thought I’d be fine trotting through in my rainboots and hadn’t thought to wear something other than jeans. A cousin brought an extra pair of leggings, and as I navigated the murky, shin-high water around a little bend to change pants in private, three-fourths of my left leg was sucked right under. It startled the heck out of me, but my family got a good laugh (it’s okay; I’m sure I looked ridiculous struggling to rescue my leg and boot from two and a half feet of mud).
Over the week, I made a few trips to County Market, a grocery store that changed names to Greenwood Market Place at some point, but it’ll always be County Market to the locals. “Hey, Mr. Clark,” someone said as my father and I approached the deli for a plate lunch. “Mr. Clark, we miss seeing your daddy around here,” an employee said on our way out. There aren’t many strangers in a town whose population sits right at 14,000. Even I felt right at home in the eateries, shops, and convenience stores, where everyone smiled and spoke as if they knew me. “Did I jump in front of you in line?” one man asked as I queued up to pay for some snacks at the gas station. “No sir, but thanks for checking,” I replied with a grin. I thought about how in Memphis, it’s every man for himself, whether in line or on the road or anywhere else, really. With more than 620,000 of us, we’re practically all strangers, and everyone’s too hurried or impatient to be considerate or cordial.
I’m writing this now from a wooden deck, overlooking a pond with wispy clouds streaking the sky beyond. It’s peaceful out here, calm, but I do miss Memphis. In a few days, I’ll be back in the bustle, traversing Poplar Avenue traffic, and following online comments from neighbors who swear they just heard gunshots.
I don’t expect to come back beaming peace like the North Star. But hopefully I can bring a little of this Southern serenity home with me.
Either way, I love your hair.
