In the Details

I have forgotten Emma's soccer shoes. I thought I had the shoes in the rush to get out the door. I had them in my hand just fifteen before. I know I did. But there is no time before her game to turn around and go home and get them. My husband shakes his head. It appears I have dropped the ball again.

Details, Jennifer. Could you just pay attention to the details?

My feelings are bruised a little, but it is true. I forget to lock doors. I go to the store for milk and forget the milk. I am the mother at school who signs up for class helper on Columbus Day, when there is no school. I am constantly in a frenzy of disorganization. So, I shouldn't have hurt feelings at all. The details escape me.

But, no, I think I should defend myself. I am acutely aware of details. Just not the operational ones.

I am in Wal-mart. While in the paper and plastic isle, perusing the cling wrap, I find myself beside an old man. He is shopping intently for trash bags, tall kitchen size. He is dressed in all black, from his baseball hat to his loafers. Except for his tie. It jumps out at you like crayons spilled on the floor. It is an explosion of primary colors on the black backdrop, hanging out there in the middle of a Wal-mart isle. I wonder what made him choose this particular tie, this tie especially made for trash bag shopping. I select saran wrap, and pass the old man gingerly with my cart. He has a box of trash bags in his hand, reading about what I can only assume is the resiliant quality of the plastic, but he is perfectly comfortable in his audacious tie.

This is something I notice.

Recently, my family and I took an autumn trip to North Carolina, where we visited the Biltmore. It is a monument to what money can create. It stands in the mountains and is as audacious as the old man's tie. It is opulent to a beautiful fault; there is too much to see and take in, especially with three children, one of whom I had to carry throughout the entire tour of the house.

It was the view outside the house, however, that gained my attention. On the smooth stone of the Biltmore clung at least 10 or more ladybugs, just tiny drops on the massive wall. They probably were not aware that they were clinging to such a massive structure visited by thousands because of its perfection.

They were literally just ladybugs thinking they were resting on an ordinary wall.

This is something I notice.

Life, living, is so enormous. It is bursting open with details, tiny pictures of vivid humanity mostly overlooked by the masses. Except for people like me, who forget soccer shoes but never forget an old man's tie.

Just a thought from the Biltmore:

The Same Tattoo

the place is not
important the
crowd seeps into
the weak sepia
sky the ground
bleeds gray and
gravel scrapes
endlessly under
feet it is
all unimportant
but for my hand
resting on this
stone splayed
among dark blood
ladybugs drops
of dotted elegance
attached to a
sheet of granite
solid perfect
but insects don't
care to mar
the surface of
something faultless
he says to me
look at them
they like you no
no wonder since
you have the
same tattoo
which is true
a small blunder
on my back an
almost unconscious
decision permanent
unlike these
scarlett pearls
lining the neck
of this house
they can light
anywhere they
please until the
frost comes