The Old Masters

Teressa Raiford’s trial is moving slowly. I will be a witness for her defense, but just as I was leaving for the courthouse, I got a call saying I won’t be needed till tomorrow. That gave me a chance to catch up on mundane chores--laundry, bill-paying, buying a few groceries. As I plodded along in my day thinking of Teressa and of a friend in California who will have a complete knee replacement tomorrow, I tried to remember the lines of Auden’s wonderful poem, Musée des Beaux Arts, about how suffering takes place “While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along.” One person suffers a great loss while someone else scratches their behind; someone wins a Pulitzer prize while others sail calmly on. We all seem to be separate, imprisoned in our individual story, and yet we are all part of a single landscape, a shared music, our hearts beating in time.

I passed this construction site near my apartment just after the workers left for the day. Soon people will live in those cantilevered rooms suspended over cross-legged columns. They will make love or wish they were making love. They’ll cry, gain or lose money, make plans, and harken to the vibrations of their phones. Just now the moon rises and an airplane streaks overhead.