She said I was middle class, as if
it was an insult to her status, because
I told her the place needed curtains.
Not her place. That was none of my
business. But I could not stand a room
without something pretty to at least
frame the world I knew was outside:
the homeless man I found sleeping
in my unlocked car one morning (I
walked to class that day). That sweet
neighbor, Dave, who loved castaway
window fans and the tools to fix motors,
because his father had left them to him.
When he talked, he rocked back and
forth, said his favorite words over and
over, as if every repetition was the first,
his own simple vocabulary electric. And
my own responses were lame because
I never knew enough, other than to be
kind—it’s just that no one identified him
as autistic, and if they did, I wouldn’t have
understood what that was anyway. And
just yesterday, at the local Panera, I told my
husband how much I really appreciated
the softened butter, because don’t you hate it
when it’s stiff and cold? And I knew as soon
as it came out of my mouth that hard butter
was what my friend would call a “champagne
problem,” or what I used to call a “first world
problem,” except I stopped, because I prefer
not to intimate other countries as less-than,
beneath us, even if they’re happier. And come
to think of it, I’d prefer not to revisit that
kind of poverty again, towels and blankets
draped to block the sun, ghosts of secondhand
furniture my poor mom used to hate, the way
she associated antiques with being on Section 8,
cracked, grey sidewalks overflowing with curt
strangers who likely don’t know you and likely
don’t give a shit. And I know how it can creep
up on you, this odd thought of being entitled,
of taking things for granted when you do have
money, buying more than you need simply
because you can. And, yes, there is a certain
holiness in practicing frugality, but when it
starts to feel like poverty’s sharp tongue, well,
everyone naturally wants to run in a different
direction. Some direction, anyway. Me, I’d be
content with lacy curtains and windows
that keep out the draft. Thrilled with land
of our own and trees protected by something
bigger than ourselves. Relieved with a flatter
house with stairs to no longer stumble on,
and space for family who needs it. And if
that means I’d have a little extra to carry
someone else up in the world, replicate
the thawed life I’d finally become accustomed
to, I’d be more than happy to help. More
than happy to leave them tools or buy them
a set of new, inexpensive wrenches. Content as
my own settled self. Content as middle class.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright April 16, 2024, all rights reserved
Posted in Poetry Month 2024
