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Stammerman
by Robert Penick This morning I wake up with only a bit of trouble in my heart. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen and all else is silent. The reading lamp ignites and the second-hand recliner tilts back as the curtain rises on the New York Times Crossword Puzzle. Hummus and wheat chips lay to my right. Through the window to my left shines Lord Buckley’s Hallelujah! morning and all the bright things God can muster. I write down a five letter answer for “type of cat,” knowing it is wrong, then smile. A cup of green tea awaits me in the microwave, when next I rise. Outside I see an indignant sparrow pecking furiously through the February lawn and think of Stammerman, over on Hoock Avenue with his finches, cardinals and blue jays. The bird seed strewn on his back deck and the elegant art of mercy being practiced all over the world at this instant. I remember Kelly and his service dog, years ago, leading one another around the Seneca Park walking track, neither of them in a particular hurry and both of them content to still be alive. And I know later this afternoon Mark Anthony Mulligan, 400-pound mad black saint of the Highlands, will be napping at his bus stop, occasionally waking to cast huge magnificent eyes and smiles upon passerby. I understand these people, the birds, and how we all try to outdistance time, cruelty, mortality and malaise. The way we attempt goodness in any size: A Dixie cup bird feeder, stale bread strewn for squirrels, a handshake dollar for sidewalk saints. We give, hope, extend our wings for flight. Each in our own way. |
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