what a poem can do

Driving with Gabriel to pick up Frances from school today, I listened to poet Marie Howe on Fresh Air. As we pulled into the parking lot, she read a poem called "What the Living Do," which she wrote as a letter to her brother John who had died from AIDS-related complications years before. Here it is:

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,
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.
-from What the Living Do: Poems 

It is incredible to me how a particular collection of words spoken in a particular voice can change everything. We sat in the car and listened to her finish the poem, then I turned the key and the car was quiet. I sat in the stillness and warmth, and turned to look back at Gabriel, who I had woken from a nap only minutes earlier. He looked back at me. "That was a nice poem," I said, trying to acknowledge the beauty without succumbing to the emotion I felt in my tightening throat. 

(I remember you. By now we all have a you to remember, I think.)

He nodded his assent. I got out of the car into the day that had turned windy and cold, opened the back door,  unbuckled his car seat, and lifted him out. I don't get to carry my big three-and-a-half year old as much as I'd like, but today, still warm from sleep, Gabriel remained heavy in my arms. His head fit just so on my shoulder and his legs wrapped around me, fitting along the slight indentation above my hips.

As I walked, I pulled his sweatshirt hood up to cover his exposed neck and protect it from the cold. His body, shielding me from the wind, was perfect in its completeness and in that moment my body participated in that perfection because of the way we fitted together seamlessly. Most of the time, I want more and more and then more of it--but not then.

The warmth and weight of him all around me, amidst the first fall day that hinted at winter's rawness, and right there in the middle of so many yelling children and smiling teachers and chatting parents I was gripped by a cherishing so deep. For me, and for the me that is me-and-them. When Frances emerged from her classroom I wanted to run to her.

She ran to me instead.