songs of experience

Remember the kid-question, “If you could be any animal, what would it be?” Well, I could never come up with an animal because when I was little I wanted to be a tree. Of course, that sounds silly now but I used to think trees were sentient beings, that their feelings could be hurt, that they cried if cut.

I still love trees. I can’t name all the types or identify the leaves or even tell you the difference between an American and a Japanese maple (one has red leaves, I think). I love them in all seasons - but especially in winter when they’re naked and vulnerable. Austere and beautiful in their stripped-down solitude.

So, when I read about a woman who turned her head away from the trees in William Carlos Williams’ poem, The Last Words of My English Grandmother I knew for a moment, for the time it took to read the last line, exactly what dying must feel like.

The Last Words of My English Grandmother

There were some dirty plates
and a glass of milk
beside her on a small table
near the rank, disheveled bed—

Wrinkled and nearly blind
she lay and snored
rousing with anger in her tones
to cry for food,

Gimme something to eat—
They’re starving me—
I’m all right I won’t go
to the hospital. No, no, no

Give me something to eat
Let me take you
to the hospital, I said
and after you are well

you can do as you please.
She smiled, Yes
you do what you please first
then I can do what I please—

Oh, oh, oh! she cried
as the ambulance men lifted
her to the stretcher—
Is this what you call

making me comfortable?
By now her mind was clear—
Oh you think you’re smart
you young people,

she said, but I’ll tell you
you don’t know anything.
Then we started.
On the way

we passed a long row
of elms. She looked at them
awhile out of
the ambulance window and said,

What are all those
fuzzy-looking things out there?
Trees? Well, I’m tired
of them and rolled her head away.