Headstones
Three days before Thanksgiving our family gathered for an occasion of mild emotional stress. Crouton the hamster died of complications due to something mysterious. The girls, who were the hamster’s legal guardian in the sovereign nation of the Carney family household, reported that Crouton displayed cold-like symptoms the day before. I’m suspicious of this claim because neither of my girls have any veterinarian training, but on the other hand I’ve never experienced them to be liars.
Here I’d normally say something nice about Crouton–perhaps a word about his fluffy brown patches or sanguine temperament–but to be honest I don’t ever remember meeting Crouton. I have an indicting history of pet insensitivity. One time I inquired about Wendell’s hermit crab Bobby, only to be rebuked by Wendell who replied (and I quote) “Dad Bobby’s been dead for a month, do you even know what is going on in my life?” Perhaps I will get cancelled by PETA, but you should know that pet deaths, and consequently, pet lives are ubiquitous in our household. In the same way you have a hard time keeping up with Kardashians or your NFL team’s 5th, 6th, & 7th round draft picks, I forget about our pets. Our pet cemetery is populated with chickens, guinea pigs, mice, hamsters, gerbils, and hermit crabs. The City of Waco sewage system has also hosted a few fish funerals on our behalf.
So, on that fateful November morning when we gathered for Crouton’s funeral I volunteered, in the way I always do, which is by offering to play Kansas’s “Dust In The Wind.” Someone said a few nice words and Crouton was interred with a shovel full of dirt. Tears were scant at this particular funeral, which made me feel better about my own callous response. The sheer volume of pet deaths has calibrated our capacity for pet grief.
And herein that reality, that is, the reality of our collective marginally diminished emotive responses, Lillian laid five painted rocks on the grave of Crouton the hamster. Initially I paid little attention to the rocks. If I recall correctly, the funeral took place over my limited lunch break, and so I broke free to make my way back to urgent TPS reports. But about a week later, when I was mowing my lawn, and forced to temporarily relocate the headstones, I was taken in by them. The art is less complex and more jovial. It celebrates both my daughters’ wit and their playful relationship with the animal. Be it simple, the art is also intentional. A testimony to Lillian’s refusal to let even the simplest things die a second death of going unnoticed.
I have spent about four years reading poetry daily. I consider it a formative practice. Often I don’t understand the poems. Sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I’m bored, but almost always I’m taken somewhere. My four years of reading has led me to believe that all poets have one thing in common. They are those who notice. Those who refuse to let the mundane assault their sense of vision. Lillian has this gift. She is one who thrives by persisting in her tender vision of the world.
Of my four, Lillian seems the most at home with artistic expression, a phrase I’ve selected for its vague meaning. She is better at “art” than most of the family. She is likely the best singer. She is a pretty good dancer, but I’m unapologetic about the fact that she is a gifted actress. If not Toni worthy, good enough, most recently, to solicit a room full of hearty laughter for her portrayal as drunk Diana in Anne of Green Gables.
I think that the vocations that require the most emotional intelligence are fiction writing, stand-up comedy, and acting. These practitioners must so fully take in the world of another, that they can speak authentically either about them or for them. To do this work you must notice. Lillian’s rare gift is her instinctive ability to bring what is hidden in plain sight and gently ask that we all pay attention to its unmistakable beauty.
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