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Blog archive

September 2026

August 2026

Triumph Over Tragedy
08/31/2026

Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained/Lost
08/30/2026

A Gallery of Neighbors: The Village Art Group’s Group Show
08/28/2026

A New and Improved Way to Stay Safer Online
08/28/2026

A Trip to The Geffen Galleries
08/28/2026

Barrier Free Living - A Path to Living a More Independent Lifestyle
08/28/2026

Conversations with Art
08/28/2026

MESSAGE FROM THE PRESIDENT
08/28/2026

Member Connections with Music Conductor Bill Bing
08/28/2026

Pasadena Heritage Walking Tour
08/28/2026

In Their Hands
08/23/2026

Ease of Being: Managing the stuff of everyday life
08/20/2026

A Tribute to Fire Debris Remediators and Their Super-Sized Dump Trucks
08/18/2026

Really Irene?
08/15/2026

There Is A Risk
08/09/2026

2026 Year in Review
08/03/2026

A Message From Your Newly Elected President
08/03/2026

Neighborhoods Within the Village
08/03/2026

Reflection from PUSD Intern Isabella "Izzy" Roberts
08/03/2026

Reflection on Service & Joy from 2025/26 President Dick Myers
08/03/2026

The Villager Engagement Team Welcomed 54 New Villagers
08/03/2026

Treasurer’s Report
08/03/2026

What Activity! The Cultural Activities Team Report
08/03/2026

An Even Exchange
08/01/2026

July 2026

June 2026

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February 2026

January 2026

What The Living Do by Marie Howe

By Jim Hendrick
Posted: 03/13/2025
Tags:


What the Living Do
 
by Marie Howe 


Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,

☺️☺️🥹😇😇😍😆😆 This poem was read by Karen DeMott
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

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