I Think of You

 

 

February 1, 2021

 Greetings from the catalyst,

 I have been idling here, trying to decide how to change the world.  So.

 The other morning, I had breakfast.  That’s not the world-changing part, in fact it happens pretty much daily.  On that morning I had avocado toast with three eggs, over easy.   I make it exactly as I have been shown.  Some red pepper flakes, salt and pepper, a little hot sauce.

 What delights me more than the flavor of the meal, which was fantastic, is the fact that my daughter, Katherine, gave me this breakfast a couple of years ago.  On that morning I came into my kitchen, just back from a run, famished, and Katherine offered to make me something.  It was the first time I’d ever had avocado toast, and she layered some fried eggs on top, and served them up, the hint of a smile on her face.  It was delicious, and also I felt like I’d been given a little gift.  Now I could have it anytime I wanted?  Well, anytime I can catch an avocado in that magic moment between rock hard verdant and black pulp.

 So, this week as I finished my breakfast and thought of my daughter, thought I should call her and tell her, but it seemed silly.  Two days later I had the same meal, and the thought occurred to me again.  I was laughing to myself about it by then. 

 Another day passed and I finally called and told her this: “I think of you when I make avocado toast.”  It looks strange alone on the page, and it’s not something you would say to a stranger on a plane, but it made her happy.

 And it made me happy.  It was so much more satisfying than “What are you watching on Netflix?” or whatever little scraps of mundanity we might exchange.  I told someone I thought of them, and it made them feel seen and valued, and that was a gift to me as well. The best part of this is not simply the feeling I get when I’m reminded of a friend.  It is telling them. 

 I think of you when…

 Tom, I think of you when I see a ribbon of road stretching out into farmland.  Max, I think of you when I smell bagels toasting, remembering how you would sit and stare at me until I gave you a piece of mine. 

 My three sons, I think of you when I pass the painting in my den of your four shadows.    My sisters, I think of you when someone is making tea, which makes me think of our Dad making tea. Floyd, I think of you when I see a loud, floral print shirt.  Which makes me think of Harrison, who wore them too. 

Grandpa, I think of you when I smell a musty basement, or someone smoking a cigar.  Suzanne, I think of you when I see candles in windows. 

 These little domino moments happen all day, although we can’t always give in to them.  You might be taking out the trash, and that makes you think of some kid you knew in the third grade, what was his name? And that reminds you of your Mom who couldn’t remember a name and would say “Oh, for crying out loud, you know who I mean.”

 There are people I can’t reach, or whose names I can’t recall, or who have gone from my life, who drift into view when I’m otherwise inspired.  When I meet someone with blue eyes.  When I have coffee.  When I hear that one song.  When I hear a good story. When I’m brushing my teeth.  When I see mountains.

 I think of that guy with the beard I met, that couple with the big dog, the little kid who asked all the questions, my friend from high school with the scar on his lip, the man who cut meat at Comber’s. 

 Cascading memories are a pleasure, sometimes laced with pain, maybe the tiniest bit of regret for a lost moment.  In fact, most of my day is decorated with these moments, and the chance to share them, to tell the person I thought of.  What could change the world will be that I take hold of those moments and act.

 This is a little thing, and many world changing things are, which, ironically, is why we don’t always bother.  So let’s.  When you think of that person, then call them, or write them, or pray to them, or go to them and tell them.  It will change their day, for a moment, and it will change yours.  So.

 I think of you when I sit down at this blank page and wait for the words to form.  I think of you there in your slippers and pajamas, or on the subway riding to work, or leaning at the coffee pot, or starting the tractor, looking at these words I put down so you’d know.  I’m thinking of you.

 Hope this finds you calling who you just thought of,

 

David

 

 

 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith