I took my own advice from this yesterday’s post and watched the Mary Oliver documentary. A beautiful portrait of a beautiful soul. 

 

Today is my sister’s birthday. Since my Dad died in 2007, I began the tradition of taking her to lunch at the Left Bank Café in Larkspur. When parents got older and refused to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge (wisely so), we would meet there for lunch. He and my mother would pick me up at the Larkspur Ferry and drive the short distance to the restaurant, where we each ordered our favorite dishes. So when he passed, I’d meet my sister there to carry on the tradition, either biking to the ferry and then to the restaurant or occasionally biking all the way there from San Francisco. 

 

So while I was arranging this year’s lunch meeting on the phone with her, I looked up the restaurant to make sure they were open on a Tuesday—and they were closed! Permanently! A bearable loss, but a loss nonetheless. Taking Ms. Oliver’s advice from yesterday’s poem, it appears that it’s time to “let it go.”

 

On the occasion of my sister’s birthday and the recent documentary, I share here a poem I wrote back in 2006, when my folks were still with us. I guess I arrived early and was waiting for them with a new Mary Oliver book with me and then wrote this poem. 

LUNCH WITH MARY OLIVER

 

Two hours of cycling through the fog,

Winding through the hills of Marin.

Just at the Larkspur border,

The sun emerged.

Perfect for my sidewalk lunch at the Left Bank café.

 

I quickly ordered my meal

and browsed through a new book of poems

by Mary Oliver.

How happy I was, edging to the state of gratitude that Ms. Oliver

sings so constantly and eloquently.

And it was just at that moment of euphoria, just as I was nodding in 

agreement with her praise of the world, 

that my ear caught the voice

of the woman at the table next to mine 

dining with her two friends.

 

She was telling them about her Pilates workout

And her friend who sailed to Costa Rica

And the new insulation in her house.

And on she went,

and on,

and on,

 like an out-of-tune oboe 

circular breathing through a themeless melody. 

 

My iced tea arrived and she had yet to take even an 8^th note rest in her Symphony of 

Small Talk.

 

 

Then came my hearty whole wheat bread appetizer 

and her friends had still not gotten a word in edgewise, 

sideways or 

through the back door.

 

The waiter brought my Jacques Pépin roasted eggplant sandwich and the

Vapid Wagnerian Opera about Nothing droned on with nary a change in chord.

My French Fries served vertically in a coned napkin were powerless to stop her

And by the iced tea refill,

 still not a hint of a cadence.

 

How I wanted to shout, “NOBODY CARES ABOUT 

YOUR FUCKIN’  INSULATION!!!” 

like a thunderous timpani 

announcing the final chords

           of a concert that never should have been.

 

But instead, I just finished the last leaf of arugula on my plate 

and stared at the empty chair opposite me, 

wondering what it would be like 

             if Mary Oliver was sitting there having lunch with me.

what kind of conversation we would have. 

And how she would react to this radio tuned to the wrong frequency. 

I pictured her eating thoughtfully and then looking up with a wide grin and announcing,

 

“Just listen to the rustle of those eucalyptus leaves in the wind.”