The Lanyard
Billy Collins
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when 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 into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long 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 sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me 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 a 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 worn truth
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.
- Billy Collins
tonight we had fried chicken with grandma doris. her middle name is merle & she's a rockin' pentecostal grandma with a lot on her mind. she knows no strangers. she likes chinese food. she has a pineapple tree in her backyard. she rarely sleeps. my dad's mom.
dear friends,
the thing this: i've been trying to turn off introspection. trying to be all beach-like & "life is light, life is carefree" because it is...but i can't stop thinking. i take a long walk every morning. tell myself that i will think of nothing weighty, nothing sad, nothing deeper than 6 inches. i made a summer songs playlist full of junky pop songs that evoke a spirit of peppyness. i even bought the latest marie clare. i could take ten walks a day if i wanted to, but the same thing would happen, leaving me frustrated: all of this introspection & no outlet. it's like i am dam-ed. (get it?)
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this was our view eastbound on center on saturday evening.
we made it to wilmore, kentucky on our first day of travel & stopped at korrie byrd's (harper) house in the evening. they live in this great little house in the middle of a cow pasture. it was beautiful there.
the night before we left for vacation, i saw an ad in the paper for an open mic night at the city underground tavern. i'd been down for most of the day for no reason, other than feeling sorry for myself because i was tired of unpacking & just wanted to do something fun. after being persuaded by jason & ali, i drove downtown to the tallest building in springfield, the hilton. the open mic was in the hotel's lounge. 
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It is only natural that Finn would be a gamer - given his paternal genes... all easley's are gamers... that's just how it is.
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