{"id":149,"date":"2007-04-24T22:33:42","date_gmt":"2007-04-25T03:33:42","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.silkentent.com\/Trees\/?p=149"},"modified":"2012-10-19T00:56:04","modified_gmt":"2012-10-19T05:56:04","slug":"can-you-imagine-us","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.silkentent.com\/Trees\/?p=149","title":{"rendered":"Can You Imagine Us"},"content":{"rendered":"

April 24, 2007
\nTuesday<\/strong><\/p>\n

Can you imagine us years from today,
\nSharing a park bench quietly? . . .
\nMemory brushes the same years,
\nSilently sharing the same fears.<\/em>
\n\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 \u00e2\u20ac\u201d Paul Simon, b. 1941
\n\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0American singer-songwriter<\/p>\n

My friend from yesterday<\/a> was not at breakfast this morning. I’d chosen the later seating because\u00c2\u00a0at 7:00 I was really deep into a revision of the material I’d worked on yesterday, a fix for an awkward spot that had come to me in the shower last night. Father had told me yesterday, “I’m a good Jesuit. I rise at 5:00, twice a day,” his eyes twinkling with his little joke. I figured he’d been and gone. I grabbed a piece of fruit and a hard boiled egg and went back to work.<\/p>\n

When I emerged from my encampment in the first floor library just before lunch, I saw him standing at the table in front of the bulletin board in the main hall. As I approached, I said, “Good afternoon, Father!”<\/p>\n

“Oh, hello,” he said. “Are you one of the new nurses?”<\/p>\n

I hesitated a moment. “No, I’m here for Sister Ann’s retreat. I’m Margaret.”<\/p>\n

“Oh,” he said. “There was a lovely girl here yesterday named Margaret. She’s a writer. Do you know her?”<\/p>\n

I hesitated once again, uncertain exactly how to respond. But as I used to say to my students, I am not as dumb as I look. “Yes, I do, Father,” I said.<\/p>\n

“Well,” he said, “I’ve had my lunch, and my arthritis is really kicking up today. I’m going to take a nap. I’m a good Jesuit, you know. I rise at 5:00, twice a day.”<\/p>\n

With that, he started up the central stairway that leads to the priests’ rooms. At the turn he stopped, and looked in my direction, and I couldn’t tell if maybe a knee or a hip had given him a twinge or if he’d suddenly made a connection between me and the “lovely girl” he’d talked to about novels.<\/p>\n

The poignancy of the encounter followed me all day. I did some more fiction work and then took a nap, rising at 5:00 myself.<\/p>\n

I’ve been here four days. The first program took me out of myself and helped me see that the joy and the creativity I have been experiencing for the past several months is\u00c2\u00a0good and right and working toward a noble purpose.<\/p>\n

The next four days will be devoted to a program called Saying Yes to the Call of Aging.\u00c2\u00a0<\/p>\n

I’m feeling lots less jaunty tonight.<\/p>\n


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