Gasping for air in a world without oxygen
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- November 24, 2024
- 661
I see them hanging onto the trees, those little bits of chaotic color swinging in the wind. I’d like to be the first beautiful leaf that falls, the one someone picks up and admires for how crisp its edges are, how lovely its color. Most days I feel like a leaf that’s been battered and bruised, clinging to the branch for dear life, much of its vibrancy gone. But I know those leaves have the will to keep hanging on, no matter how hard the wind howls. It’s built into their system.
I haven’t turned on the news for 2 1/2 weeks. All I can tolerate is “60 Minutes.”
There’s a quote from the book, “A Man Called Ove,” that says, “He’d discovered that he liked houses. Maybe mostly because they were understandable. Houses were fair, they gave you what you deserved. Which, unfortunately, was more than one could say about people.”
What I’ve always known is most people, after considering their world, will always think of themselves first. And as the saying goes (or at least the airlines do), “Put on your own oxygen mask first.” But what it doesn’t say is “never take that mask off.” It’s suggesting you take in oxygen and pass it on to the next person in need.
A lot of days I feel like the oxygen mask has been stowed for good. No one gets more oxygen. Just breathe the crappy air that’s left over.
The other week my friend invited me to a craft night at her house. We made sun catchers to hang in the window. My arthritic fingers don’t work as well as they used to, so my sun catcher was a mess. But that evening, filled with good conversation and food, filled my lungs with needed air.
I haven’t mowed my lawn for the last time. It could be done, but I can’t stand to see the ragtag way the leaves fell on the grass. It doesn’t help Dominion Energy owns the land in between the two lots we own. They hire someone to come every four weeks, and hear me when I say that this isn’t enough — and I do think they’re done coming for the winter.
I will now have to stare out my windows at a leaf-covered mess. If I mow one more time, I can make a statement that, hey, your piece of Canton is beastly. I don’t think they care, though, because they’re not going to send bigwig execs to drive past all the tiny parcels of land they own. They don’t care if their grass is high.
They should care. At least I think they should. Owning lots on residential city streets comes with responsibility.
We can’t control what others think and do, so I will learn to control my small part of the world. Hopefully, I bring some small joy to those who read me, maybe some gritted teeth to those who don’t. I’ll keep on thrifting, writing and laying out words for the folks who’ve hidden the oxygen mask. Maybe the Easter eggs hidden within my own written words can be found, considered.
“Men are what they are because of what they do. Not what they say,” writes Fredrick Backman, again from “A Man Called Ove.” And that couldn’t be truer. We all say many words in the hopes that some of them will stick. But the realest test is getting up when we don’t feel like it and doing one good thing, whether for ourselves or others. We all need tended to. That one action could ripple through space and time.
Melissa Herrera is a reflective writer who captures the beauty and sorrow of change. With a career spanning 14 years as an opinion columnist and the publication of two books, she resides in Stark County with her husband and four cats. She writes to preserve memories. You can reach her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.