Those were the final words of the email I got from my co-teacher early Sunday morning. Her husband suffered a “brain bleed” suddenly and inexplicably on Friday night, and now she’s with her sons on round-the-clock watch–worrying sick about things she can’t control, praying he’ll wake up, speculating on whether he’ll be the same man–at a hospital where my husband used to work. Tonight I have to go to a wake for a colleague’s mother, who died Saturday morning at the age of 65 of a brain tumor diagnosed only a few months ago.
I had planned to teach Walt Whitman’s poem “Miracles” tomorrow.
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
These three truths are intertwined under the following cautionary wisdom: take inventory and waste nothing.