the lanyard

Ash recently reminded me that we have roughly ten weeks to finish our goal of reading 50 books. You will notice that is a very real possibility for my husband: to read all fifty of his books. For me, you will notice, it is unlikely. I've had words with my husband about stealing my goal in the first place. He decided to start this goal after I'd decided to and now he's going to go and meet the goal, and I won't. I'd like to say that he takes time to read at work. He has that office aferall; a quiet room far away from preschoolers, diapers, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He doesn't read at work though. And to be fair, I am the one who has naptime in the middle of my day; a whole hour or two when my house is quiet and my couch would love for me to sit and read to it. I am the one who could spend my day reading for my goal. No one in my family would actually care if the laundry piled up or if the floors were ever vaccummed. I don't like admitting it, but Ash has beat me fair and square here. The truth is, he's read some books that would be too hard for me to read and he's read them faster than I've read my books. Our evenings, after the kids are in bed, consist of us sitting and reading together. We probably spend close to the same amount of time reading, and he's a solid 15 books ahead of me.

I was explaining all this to Naomi the other day. I also shared that because I am reading Anna Karenina right now, I'd probably not even read 30 books. This is when Naomi suggested I read a book of poetry she has. In this way, Naomi introduced me to Billy Collins. Mr. Collins has written several books of poetry, but the one Naomi loaned me is entitled, "The Trouble With Poetry." This book has 89 pages to read (because I also read "About The Author") with 43 poems and now I get to list another book towards my goal. I was able to put myself one book closer to my revised goal of 30 books with less than two hours of committment to 43 poems. And I feel good about counting a book of poetry because poetry is something I've always felt like I couldn't "get." But I got Mr. Collins! Maybe not all of his poems, but most of them. And some are still rattling around inside me. I"ll share Mr. Collins' "The Lanyard" here, as an example, because that is the one Naomi read to me in front of my door before she placed the book in my hands and left. "The Lanyard" was my first introduction to Billy Collins and it was the poem that moved me to forget my laundry and vaccuum and to instead use naptime to sit and read poetry to my couch. It seems fitting that it should also be your introduction to Billy Collins.

The Lanyard

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the pale blue walls of this room,
bouncing from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a french novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past-
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that's what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sickroom,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me how to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from my counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift- not the archaic truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.