Endlessly Enough

With the sun,

The stars begin to fade

Sinking beneath dawn’s red glow.

The moon paling at the sight of its warmth,

Taking its final bow before exit.

Hillsides, blanketed with golden light,

Glisten with beads of chilly dewdrops

The warblers chatter

Amongst their drowsy flock

Whistling greetings to new life.

And the beholder standing

In wake of great divinity,

Takes their place amongst creation

At peace with the warblers and worms

Knowing at long last

They are no burden,

Nor undeserving,

Nor broken,

Nor a mess to be swept aside.

They are,

As endlessly enough

As the Earth upon which they stand.

Cowboys, Desktop Photos, and Johnny Cash

The smell of Folger's dark roast coffee on a hazy Saturday morning brings back so many memories of my childhood. Old photographs stuffed between the pages of National Geographic magazines and thick biographical novels overwhelm my consciousness like a deep itch in the crevices of one’s mind. Traces of ink and aged camera film always consumed any guest’s nostrils upon entering that small, red-brick townhouse. When I was younger, my mom and dad would ship my sister and me off to my grandparents’ place for a weekend in efforts to briefly rid their lives of our troublesome personalities. Although it was only a short drive across Hendersonville, Tennessee, the cookie-cutter neighborhood where they lived felt like a small oasis of endless stories, Nickelodeon, and blueberry pancakes.

My grandfather always embraced us with a stubbly kiss on the cheek and a low, gravelly voice inviting us to come view his newest project. He had been a long-time photojournalist and editor for a New York newspaper company, and thus often preoccupied his time with organizing pictures on his early 2000’s Mac computer. My sister and I would crowd around the dusty monitor each Friday night to watch my grandfather summon picture after picture and listen to him illustrate the stories behind each. On some nights, they were photos of bombed-out Germany during his time overseas in the military. On other nights, he showed us photos of my mom swaddled tightly in baby clothes, cradled in the arms of my grandmother. Some nights he would show us black and white photos of his family from Texas, their faces often withered with frugality and hardship endured from the Great Depression. He never hesitated to educate us on the past. Model P-40 Warhawks and P-51 Mustangs lined the desk as homages to his life spent as a young adult growing up in WWII. Old metal camera lenses used as paperweights for the scrapped beginnings of his memoir and mystery novels.

My grandfather is the type of person who teaches others through story and song. I grew up listening to him spin golden fibers of word and prose into magnificent adventures; he is gifted with a talent for tale-telling. My favorites of his were about a cowboy named Ned who lived with his horse, Buckeye, on a ranch out in Texas. After sunset, he would tuck my sister and me into bed and, per request, begin exactly where he left off last, only to leave us droopy-eyed and yawning for more as he quietly left our room. I’ve never been able to remember my dreams, not even at the age of eighteen now, but I have no doubt my subconscious was always vivid with heist chases on horseback through the dusty streets of El Paso those summer nights.

Old folk songs were also a common ritual my grandfather ingrained in the weekend routine of my frequent visits. Tunes like Clementine, A Frog Went A-Courting, and Oh! Susanna (always a special selection for my sister, whose middle name was Susanna) are just a few of my grandfather’s psalms that he sang religiously while building Lincoln Log cabins with us on the living room carpet. Even now, I can still hear the melodies of each Americana piece ringing in my ears: the voices of my pioneer ancestry embalmed within each lyrical note.

The first time I ever heard him sing the song “You Are My Sunshine” I was huddled in the corner of my grandmother’s closet, my cheeks hot and tear-stained from crying over something my sister had offhandedly spat at me. After calling my name for several minutes, he eventually found me curled up, my 6-year-old self shaking venerably. As he stooped down to my level, he whispered the introductory line in his rough but lulling voice: “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.” I lifted my head up as he brushed the matted brown hair aside in efforts to wipe away the tears and snot from my face. He cradled me just as my grandmother had cradled my mom in those old pictures he had once shown to me. From then on I asked him to sing “The Poppy Song”, as I referred to it, every night before bed- that is, after his obligatory cowboy Ned and Buckeye story.

“You are my Sunshine” quickly became a beloved song of mine and has since remained my favorite throughout the years. It is a simple yet infinitely meaningful tune I have come to identify my grandfather and his embodiment of selflessness by. It is a somber but remindful song about the dangers of affection in any close relationship. Although I have grown to understand the lyrical definition of losing love, as a small kindergartener, the only lines that truly resonated with me were, “You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.” Every time my grandfather would finish the last verse I’d always tell myself that I’d never take his sunshine away. I never wanted to be the person in my grandfather’s life to rob him of happiness and joy he so freely expressed to me.

That is the most valuable lesson I adopted from my grandfather: the idea that I should always be conscientious of other’s feelings. I’ve never wanted to embody hatred or selfishness towards any person I crossed. With every relationship I’ve formed over the years (a romantic crush, a close family member, a best friend, a child I babysat, a neighbor), I would continually tell myself to try and be the sunshine in their lives, just as my grandfather was to me on the dark floor of my closet. I’d remind myself that sometimes, people who need the most love in my life are the people society has deemed unlovable. Sometimes, we must seek out the little kindergarteners in our lives who are hurt and venerable.

During my freshman year of high school, I stumbled across Johnny Cash’s rendition of “You Are My Sunshine” off of his “Unearthed” box set. I instantly fell in love with the classic piece I had heard throughout my life all over again. Cash’s cover of the song is short and simple yet reminds me of my own grandfather’s voice, rolling and deep.

“You Are My Sunshine” was my grandfather’s example of patience. Listeners are reminded of the painful reality of existential loneliness through the solemn bitterness of a man’s loss of love. However, to me, it was always less of a song about relatability and more to teach other’s the repercussions of losing composure with those we're close with. It’s a reply to human tendencies of selfishness in love and a warning to be mindful of the power of our actions. My grandfather’s song of guidance was planted and cultivated within me long ago beside other lessons from his past. However, the lessons of love and patience will forever stand out to me the most, a memory like one of my grandfather’s photos pinned to his computer desktop, waiting to be shown and shared to all who ask.

Nighthawk

He was my condemned ultimatum, an expiration date manifested as the ticking time bomb wedged between my lungs. A recent diagnosis, so obsessive, so crippling to the human condition that it overwhelmed my head like a heavy fog shrouding every other aspect of life.

Late Tuesday night I walked into that old diner cemented on the corner of Greenwich and Seventh Avenue, rain coming down in sheets of violent rhythm on the canvas overhang.

I removed the dampened hat from my head and greeted the waitress who seemed all too happy to see me. My eyes glanced from her ruby red lipstick to the few other faces slumped over their home fries and hotdogs. I noticed a drunken couple from the late-night bar across the street, eating toast in an attempt to sponge the liquor that had consumed their shriveled bodies. One man that looked like he had aged too fast in life was sitting near the dusty jukebox, taking turns between a burger and cigarette.

The table my waitress led me to was positioned near a large window that overlooked the wet New York pavement outside. A dreary, but lulling sight to witness. The occasional passerby could be seen huddled under an umbrella with raincoat pulled tightly around their shivering mass, dancing around puddles like a strange, foreign fox-trot. She handed me a menu and departed quickly while straightening her grease-stained skirt.

He arrived shortly after. The door’s bell startled a drunk who had passed out at the bar. I raised my hand up high, signaling my company over to the booth where I sat. Seeing my gesture, he nodded slightly and shuffled over, slumping down into the seat across from me.

Our waitress brought us coffee and gently placed a chipped mug in front of my person, asking if I needed anything else. I shook my head.

My guest finally broke the silence, “Why did you ask me here tonight?”

I stopped pouring, spooned some sugar into the mug, and began to stir in search of the right words to say. He already knew the answer to that question.

“I need to know,” I stammered, “I need to know how much longer I have here.”

My company looked at me for a second before diverting his gaze once again. He knew what I was going through, he had encountered people like myself thousands of times before.

“You know I can’t disclose that. You know I’m just an observer in this world, a bystander in your life.”

“Please,” I whispered as I held my chest now, tightly grasping my soul. It was heavier now, weighing like bricks on the rest of my body.

I turned and looked a bit more closely at the diner’s window and saw myself in its reflection, alien and almost unrecognizable. My face, now chiseled with lines, was older and thinner. My eyes looked back at me, empty and blue, like a vast enigmatic ocean.

I traced my eyes back to the diner’s inhabitants and found myself extremely moved. My heartbeat, so often a crutch of reassurance, now beat in sync to those around me. I saw the man smoking, most likely living off a salary of whatever sympathy people tossed in as quarters and dimes into his fraying hat on the streetside. I saw the drunk man yelling at the cook, someone who might have a broken family to go home to later that night. I saw the couple who had stumbled into this restaurant, individuals who might, in a year, grow to despise each other’s company. I couldn’t relate to all their problems but they faced the same, non-compromisable ultimatum as I did. Death.

As I turned to pour myself another cup of coffee, I glanced at the window once more. A reflection of the booth, only me now. A single passenger in this diner of failed viabilities.