TRANSCRIPT

I’m Major Jackson, and this is The Slowdown.

No matter how many times my wife forbids me, for some reason I keep putting plastic storage containers into the dishwasher. She quotes all sorts of studies of its harmful effects. She warns me about the dangerous chemical leaching of bisphenol, and still, my forgetfulness takes over. Most likely, I am rushing to get to my computer, or a meeting, or whatever activity I deem more important than our health. I look sheepishly guilty whenever she lifts the warped plastic from the rack.

No matter how many times I ask her, for some reason, my wife leaves shoes scattered throughout the house. She’s one of those that takes off her boots, sneakers, sandals wherever she feels. I go behind her and line them up in a hallway. At night, it is a hazard to go to the kitchen for a glass of water. I navigate our dimly lit home, fearful of stepping on her clogs and stumbling head over heels, as has happened.

We love each other, and thus, have learned to accept our… character flaws. Actually, they are character traits. We embrace each other’s quirky habits rather than get into little disputes. “Familiarity breeds contempt” goes the old saying. But we now see that our peculiar behaviors are simply evidence of our dissimilarities. We found a way of keeping the peace.

Today’s poem is a loving exchange that underscores the importance of giving room for what makes those we love different from us, even if we wish to change them.

Sorrow Ghazal
by Mary Elder Jacobsen

        for my sister and brothers

Forgive me. Mea culpa. Beg pardon. I’m so sorry—
It’s a never-ending list, all the ways we say we’re sorry.

Mom, I say, how about we don’t say sorry  today?
“What’s that love? I can’t hear you,” she says, “I’m sorry—

I’ll be right back. One sec. Let me get my hearing aid.”
I rethink repeating myself. What’s one more sorry ?

Moving toward ninety now, my mother’s begun to fail,
and as she leaves the room, I begin to feel sorrow.

I can hear her humming, but then: “Oh gosh,” she sighs.
“Looks like my battery died.” She’s back with “I’m sorry,

sweetheart, my eyes aren’t what they used to be.
Here, maybe you could help me? Again, I’m sorry.

Sorry to be such a bother. It’s gotten so trying.”
It’s no trouble, Mom, really. It’s me who’s sorry

I can’t help more. I can see what you mean, it is hard. 
Here, try this. That should do it. Now, no more sorrys.

“Okay, thank you. You always were so good at fixing things.
Just like your father. Oh, there I go, forgive me. Sorry, 

I do go on. I’ll stop. I’ve just been missing him so.”
I know. There, there, it’s okay. Don’t be sorry.

We hug each other tightly, and long. 
If I could fix it all I would, I say, I’m sorry.

“You know, I can see your father still, in all his children.
It’s too bad he can’t see you now. Aren’t we both sorry?”

“Sorrow Ghazal” by Mary Elder Jacobsen from STONECHAT © 2024 Mary Elder Jacobsen. Used by permission of the poet.