moments like these i long to bottle up and return to again and again and again but now wouldn’t dare be as special if not for its finite magic hanging in thick air only to slowly congeal with the rest of the contents in the bottles on my shelf
oh, no. she’s taken to poetry.
it’s something i’ve always longed to be skilled at, writing poetry, but it also deeply scares me. what makes a good poem? what’s the difference between a mediocre poem and a great poem? or, much more likely in my case, a bad poem versus a decent poem? it’s all so subjective. and it often feels completely inaccessible — it feels as though you have to be a particular type of person to produce great poetry.
my grandmother is an incredibly talented poet and writer. she was the poet laureate for the state of alaska and she’s been awarded with not one, but two pushcart prizes. she’d also likely be gravely disappointed if she knew i wrote in all lowercase. candidly? it’s not because i want to be cool and tumblr-circa 2013. i’m beyond lazy and can’t bother to use the shift or caps key. welcome to my generation, grandma… i’m sorry to disappoint.
she’s an incredible woman and while i wish i knew her better than i do, it’s been fun reading her pieces and learning a bit more about her, and the artist she is, with each painting of words i uncover and dissect. most of her poetry is about alaska’s wildlife given she lived there for many years, particularly when she was raising her children — my dad included in that lot — and, well, i didn’t grow up in alaska. i sadly don’t have the same deep appreciation for the sea otters and the ravens and the moss, but i am including my favorite poem of hers below. it’s lesser known, but one of the few that deeply resonates with me (and i hope with you, too).
"Modern Story" by Sheila Nickerson One unknown day we crossed the border of childhood. Now in airports and phone booths We constantly check to see where we are. We remember houses we lived in and left, their scents: Nebraska, Iowa, New York. Once, over Billings, Montana, at 30,000 feet, I cried Because of something said. No rancher looked up from a field to watch the course of tears caught in a plastic cup. In Chicago, where I left the plane, there was nothing to show, not even for the cleaning crew. I got into another plane, reached to touch the boundaries I could not: lands of childhood, lands of tears containerized. With this cargo of gypsy nations I rocketed at 550 mph over states straight as pages in a book, remembering geography, its shapes.
we constantly check to see where we are
i got into another plane, reached to touch the boundaries i could not: lands of childhood
straight as pages in a book, remembering geography, its shapes
i’ve re-read those three lines until my vision has blurred. i can’t help but smile at how beautifully written it all is. our ‘modern times’ have enabled us to travel quite quickly to practically anywhere in the world at any given time, but all the while we’ve certainly lost touch with ourselves. we’re forced to check where we are… how do we find our place in this world, especially when we’re constantly in so many places? both physically, and existentially, that is. as an avid traveler myself, i can’t help but wonder if all my constant traveling is in an effort to find that place, or to avoid finding it altogether. i think it’s somehow a vexing combination of the two.
the last time i read this poem was a few days before my college graduation. it had felt like such a poignant reminder of the passing of time. it really seemed to capture my transition from childhood to adulthood. yet, as i sit here and read it yet again, years later, i can’t help but feel a bit sorry for younger anna… she had no idea what was coming! adulthood is hard, i want to say to my graduating self. this phase i’m in is really hard. it’s overwhelming and heavy and challenging, but it’s also beautiful and full of choice and exploration. it’s simultaneously liberating, but stifling, somehow. it’s confusing. and then i spiral — i imagine, won’t all my phases feel hard? won’t i reach for that poem every couple of years and feel deeply touched and moved in a slightly different way? each phase cascading on top of the other, compressing the prior one a little bit more with each year — each phase — that passes. each phase summing up to the greatest equalizer for us all; this universal quest for belonging that my grandmother so eloquently establishes, and inspires, in her writing.
like my grandmother, my dad is also an excellent writer — a fact that manifests itself in the way he speaks. he has all these peculiar idioms and phrases and, like all parents, he tells the same tales over and over again. i love my dad dearly and while i never get sick of these stories, i can’t always relate to the way he opines on the concept of time. he has a tendency to explain that he doesn’t feel 50-something and that it’s simply impossible he’s reached this age. he says decades feel like seasons, seasons feel like months, and months feel like days. he really wrestles with his age and the fact that time has passed so quickly. and as much as i’d love to empathize, i’m not at that age. i just don’t get it. i’m 24 and i’m dealing with 24-year-old-sized bullshit. child’s play to the 50-somethings, i’m sure. time is certainly moving more quickly for me than it did a few years ago, but i can’t yet say whether decades feel like seasons. ask me in 10 years?
anyway, he has this delightful habit of saying, “i wish i could just bottle this up” during really beautiful moments that are soon to become distant memories. he’s said this while our family sits around the dining room table playing uno and laughing together. he’s said it while we’ve played golf together. and he’s said it a number of times on our annual father-daughter sailing trips. what a nice and profound sentiment, i used to always think about “bottling up these moments”… but i never really ‘got it.’ not until recently.
for context, i’m moving into a studio apartment next week, away from two of the most incredible friends i’ve had the privilege to live with, and to know. one of them is moving back across the pacific to a little island called Maui. and the other is thankfully staying in the city, but moving in with her boyfriend. talk about new phases for us all! it’s been an incredibly reflective time for the three of us, and we’re all processing it in our own ways.
for me, the thought of not coming home to see my girls is gut wrenching. and as much as i am excited about this new phase of my life — because i really am excited for it! — it will be challenging to say goodbye to this phase of living in a pink Barbie dreamhouse that has cheetah print stairs with two girl friends who are always around to do face masks, watch re-runs of Sex and the City, have long and deep talks into the night, and go out together for copious amounts of rosé. i didn’t understand what my dad was talking about until it all finally hit me recently — that our time together in this phase is fleeting. it’s practically over as i know it. sure, i know i will see them again and we’ll all keep in touch and have our reunions and reminisce on the time we lived in our little pink apartment and became such close, such dear friends. but it will never be the three of us living together while we’re ignorantly and blissfully 24. it hit me all at once.
so, to deal with it all and acknowledge that i finally understand what my dad has been saying for years about bottling up the magic moments i wish i could return to, i wrote this poem called ‘magic.’ it won’t be winning any pushcart prizes, but i hope you like it. and i hope it inspires you to do something you’re even a teeny tiny bit scared of, but know will be good for you, like publishing this does for me…
moments like these i long to bottle up and return to again and again and again but now wouldn't dare be as special if not for its finite magic hanging in thick air only to slowly congeal with the rest of the contents in the bottles on my shelf
Amazing. Here's to 24 more years of stringing together lovely words