Today’s episode is guest hosted by Maggie Smith.

Transcript

I’m Maggie Smith and this is The Slowdown.

When my daughter was small, two or three years old, we used to take her to watch the circus train unload in a nearby suburb. The police blocked off the roads to traffic, so that elephants could walk single-file up Grandview Avenue, past the restaurants and storefronts. I still have an image in my mind of my daughter sitting up on her father’s shoulders, transfixed.

Recently, we watched a nature documentary about elephants, and I asked my daughter if she remembered watching them walk up the middle of a city street. She said, “That really happened? I thought I dreamed that!”

Of course she thought she imagined it! This fantastical, but very true thing. Our earliest memories are blurry. In them, the line between real and imagined seems especially thin.

Today’s poem walloped me with its deep wisdom about childhood, memory, and love.

Washing the Elephant
by Barbara Ras

Isn’t it always the heart that wants to wash
the elephant, begging the body to do it
with soap and water, a ladder, hands,
in tree-shade big enough for the vast savannahs
of your sadness, the strangler fig of your guilt,
the cratered full moon’s light fueling
the windy spooling memory of elephant?

What if Father Quinn had said, “Of course you’ll recognize 
your parents in heaven,” instead of 
“Being one with God will make your mother and father
pointless.” That was back when I was young enough
to love them absolutely though still fear for their place 
in heaven, imagining their souls like sponges full
of something resembling street water after rain.

Still my mother sent me every Saturday to confess,
to wring the sins out of my small baffled soul, and I made up lies
about lying, disobeying, chewing gum in church, to offer them
as carefully as I handed over the knotted handkerchief of coins
to the grocer when my mother sent me for a loaf of Wonder, 
Land O’Lakes, and two Camels.

If guilt is the damage of childhood, then eros is the fall of adolescence. 
Or the fall begins there, and never ends, desire after desire parading
through a lifetime like the Ringling Brothers elephants
made to walk through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel
and down 34th Street to the Garden.
So much of our desire like their bulky, shadowy walking
after midnight, exiled from the wild and destined
for a circus with its tawdry gaudiness, its unspoken
pathos.

It takes more than half a century to figure out who they were,
the few real loves-of-your-life and how much of the rest—
the mad breaking-heart stickiness—falls away, slowly,
unnoticed, the way you lose your taste for things
like Popsicles unthinkingly.
And though dailiness may have no place 
for the ones that have etched themselves in the laugh lines
and frown lines on the face that’s harder and harder
to claim as your own, often one love-of-your-life
will appear in a dream, arriving
with the weight and certitude of an elephant,
and it’s always the heart that wants to go out and wash
the huge mysteriousness of what they meant, those memories
that have only memories to feed them, and only you to keep them clean.

"Washing the Elephant” by Barbara Ras from THE LAST SKIN © 2010 Barbara Ras. Used by permission of Penguin Random House.