Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
A bunch of white roses lay against the doormat. They had been bound together with a clear, two-inch-high band of tape which had a faint floral design. They were also fairly uniform in shape and size, so, definitely purchased–but from where? A grocery store with a flower department? A farmers’ market, maybe, or a big-box store?
The bigger question, to my mind, was: For whom? They were at my front door, but was this deliberate? Could it have been a mistake? Were they left at the wrong door, or are they actually for me? I live in a building with a keyed entry, so then, a neighbor. Possibly, but it would not be difficult to make one’s way past the endless number of Uber Eats drivers that are buzzed up daily with their overpriced fare. So, it could have been put there by anyone from anywhere; it was not necessarily an inside job.
There are two young girls in the apartment directly to my right. Perhaps the flowers were intended for one of them? A mix-up? Maybe there is a new paramour in the picture, and someone placed them there as an offering of interest? When they enter or exit their place, those two gals fly by my doorway at lightning speed. I tried once or twice to catch them to inquire after this possibility, but both times they were too fast for me.
The flowers sit in a vase on my dining table. I have tried not to think too hard about the mystery surrounding their arrival. Possession being nine-tenths of the law, they are mine, a lovely if quite temporary addition to my decor.
The concept of ownership is, it seems to me, a tricky business. Do we really own any of the things we call ours? My computer, my clothes, my sofa and chairs, my ever-present and completely essential phone are all “mine,” but, at some point, they will belong to another person or place. They will be refurbished and resold, or if they are too far past their prime, sent to occupy space in a landfill or be reduced to parts that will create a new possession, which will belong to another entity.
That art piece I love, that I would pay again and again for, could well end up with a price tag of $5.00 in a secondhand store. As anyone knows who has ever tried to sell a piece of furniture or get full price for an item of jewelry, their value does not hold. You might get a percentage from a winning auction bid or a decent offer from a pawnshop that specializes in gold and silver. You may get close to what you want on eBay, but this is hard to predict. Any good realtor will tell you a property is worth exactly what someone will pay for it.
Until it’s not. Until catastrophe strikes and that property and all of the personal belongings it held has been entirely disappeared, burned to the ground, washed out to sea, reduced to rubble in a quake. You might be lucky enough to rebuild and rebuy, but what was yours would be yours no longer.
I remember driving through a particularly bleak part of Southern Arizona on the way to Austin with my friend Dennis and the wolf/dog Democracy who lived with me there for years. He was mine, my beautiful dog, a wonderful creature, until he wasn’t. Until his body gave way to nature and he collapsed at a ripe old age. Dennis is fine and is still my great good pal.
“I cannot believe we killed people for this!” I said, looking around at the vast uninhabitable landscape. It was all rock and dust. There were barely any signs of life.
“Part of the United States of America now and forever … Lord help it and us.” Dennis replied.
It was and is hard to believe that wars are fought over such things. For all I know, that desolate area is home to some essential mineral or provides a crucial boundary between our nation and neighbor, but it seems pointless, nonetheless.
I don’t believe in open borders. In the interest of commerce and consensual government, dividing lines must be drawn, of course. But must we still kill for them?
The governor of Texas, a man I do not admire, has sent troops uninvited to small towns along the border. Last weekend in the small hamlet of Salinas, the border patrol agents who work there were ordered by state troopers to stand down and forced to watch in horror as a woman and her two small children drowned in the river that straddles our two countries. You see, this side of the river is OURS. Belongs to us, or more specifically to the “republic” of Texas. The governor has stated that were it not for federal law, he would simply shoot dead on sight anyone who arrived on its borders to petition for sanctuary in HIS state.
One of those children could have grown up to invent a life-saving treatment. The other might have become a novelist who enthralled us with his or her words. We will never know. Their human potential has been snuffed out because it was determined that they must not be allowed to set foot on the rocks which line the north shore of the river. Those are American rocks. And now, as ever, we are willing to murder people to protect that “fact”.
Ours.
Since reading this news, I have struggled to regain my normal buoyancy. I am obsessed with this story and completely undone by its cruelty. I don’t know if I believe in ghosts, but I hope those two little ones haunt Gregg Abbott and bedevil him for the rest of his days. I hope poltergeists put spikes in the tires of his wheelchair. I hope he is diagnosed with a rare disease which can only be cured by the removal, one by one, of the hairs in his nose. I hope he tosses and turns for a sleepless eternity until it is time for him to go. And then I hope he goes to hell.
“My” roses have begun to brown at the edges. Soon it will be time to turn them into compost, that they may feed a fellow plant which–who knows?–could end up feeding me one day. I am still not sure who sent them or why. Perhaps they were a response to some kindness I bestowed which I have now forgotten. It is possible that they were a sort of romantic offering, not directed at the young beauties, but perhaps at this older wizened gal. I am doubtful there, but I tell myself daily that my physical charms still have a few tricks up their sleeve. If the lighting is low enough, that is, and the eyesight of the beholder sufficiently dodgy, I can still be quite a doll.
No matter. My apartment, my bank account, my visage, and my vase are all on loan from a universe I am too dense to divine. They will continue to be mine until I am no more. I hope, when the time comes, that I will have the grace to let them go and send them forth into the ether with gratitude and love. What’s mine is yours, theirs, ours, and—well--everyone’s. And I am good with that.
On we go …
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MINE