Feel the small song in my chest swell … Ross Gay from “Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude”
In February 2020, I flew to New York City to meet my one-month-old nephew and visit his proud papa, my younger brother. Then, the world closed down due to the pandemic.
Three years later, I boarded a plane again out of Raleigh-Durham International Airport. Only this time I flew south to Florida for a writing class with poet and essayist Ross Gay.
Sitting by Gate C9, I watched a tiny bird hop out from the empty chairs and cock its head at me. I opened my empty palm to say, “I got nothing.” The bird disappeared back under the seats.
Once I was on the plane, a boy about the age of my nephew sat a few rows in front of me. He happened to catch my eye as he peeked over the seat. I waved. He stuck his tongue out at me and, laughing, darted back down like that little bird. To our mutual delight, the boy did this several more times before the seatbelt light chimed on, and his father put a gentle yet firm hand on his head. We fathers say a lot with only our hands.
I was nervous about meeting Ross Gay because I love his writing. I’ve held authors in high esteem and been somewhat disappointed by their actual company. Perhaps those were unreasonable expectations. But Gay was even more gracious than his writing, and his award-winning poetry book is titled “Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude.” His hand gestures were big and inviting.
For the class, he had us compile a list of fifty things to say goodbye to and write a poem that unknows itself. I called my poem, “Belief You Do Not God In.” Plus, we drew various animals with our nondominant hand and our eyes closed!
I told Ross (wow, I still can’t quite believe he and I are on a first name basis) about my nephew and his shock of curls, hair like mine that none of my children inherited. Ross signed a book for my brother, who works for the teachers’ union of New York City. I had recently called him and he answered while exiting a union meeting; I could hear the hecklers in the background, crowing obscenities. I clenched my fists, but I was too far away to do anything save stay on the phone with my brother.
“Stegosaurus: Left-handed, eyes closed”
I said goodbye to Ross and Florida. My return flight to RDU was almost exactly three years after the first COVID case entered Wake County via the same airport. In the pandemic, we have said goodbye to so much and to so many. I do not believe God was in any punishment or suffering. But maybe in presence, whatever form of wordless connection that might feel like. As I hustled toward my children, who were in the same family waiting area as before, I did feel unabashed gratitude, my heart opening like a flock of birds from my chest.
Andrew Taylor-Troutman has a new book coming out about playful and poignant moments in family life titled “Little Big Moments.” He lives in Chapel Hill and occasionally stumbles upon the wondrous while in search of his next cup of coffee.
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