For the purpose of time, I'll simply say that I could take or leave "High Tide in Tuscon". That is not to say it wasn't well written, nor that it didn't raise admirable points. I simply didn't care for it. It was a shining example of how someone can remove God entirely from every aspect of her life and reduce life to a dull, drab, grayish-blue river that keeps oozing, oozing, oozing by.
On the other hand, Ted Kooser's "Small Rooms in Time" hit me so near to the heart it's frankly surprising I'm here to write this. I can't put my finger on what exactly he did in this piece that hit me so personally. The closest description I can procure is to say that it was joyfully forlorn. Mr. Kooser was shocked and grieved that something so terrible could happen somewhere he and his family had once felt safe. He didn't want to dwell on such a tragedy, yet he finds himself exploring that old house, recalling the smells and sights.
However, he can't entirely remember it as it was, as he can't help but imagine bloodstains on the orange shag carpet of the cellar walls. In his mind, the bittersweet times of his life held both blooming spring and gloomy winter at once. He recalls nothing but dreary, gray days with his young bride and son as they struggled to keep a sinking marriage afloat. Yet at the same time, he remembers his jolly foreign neighbors, continuously stooped over their beloved flowers as they slaved to bring some beauty into the world.
I struggle to put words to why I was so touched by this piece. It may be that, in some small way, Ted and I are the same. I find myself wandering not through rooms of my old houses, but through houses of friends long since forgotten, places I spent so much of my childhood which will never be the same, lost in the black-and-white still of memory.
