Transcript

I’m Major Jackson, and this is The Slowdown.

My grandfather died nearly twenty years ago. I still think of him. Each family member felt a deep closeness to him because of his open kindness. He was generous. Depression-era poverty shaped him. Though he loved to gab, he was a good listener, too.

As each relative took the podium at his funeral, a common theme emerged that surprised us: he made each of us feel as though we were his preferred grandchild. One cousin told how he would slip money into his hands and say don’t tell the others. He had a standing monthly lunch date with another cousin. He said don’t tell the others. He and I attended concerts in Fairmount Park. He said, don’t tell the others. In his way, he gave us the gift of feeling special and cherished by him.

Today’s poem finds a capacious way of existing that honors an entire life and everyone in it.

Picking Favorites
by George Franklin

We’re not supposed to pick favorites. 
Whether it’s a favorite child, favorite pet (now deceased),
Or favorite time when you went to bed early
And the radio played all the right music—you’re 
Not supposed to think this way. How will 
All the other nights seem if you do? They won’t have
Disappeared. You’ll still remember them, the holding,
Touching, her lips, yours. You’re supposed to say that all
Those nights are equally great, that each child is special,
That your dog the vet sedated with the first shot, then
Killed with the other, was loved no more or less than
The dog after or before, that each house or apartment 
Where you lived has been the dream home you 
Always wanted. Get it straight, you’re supposed to lie, 
To everyone else, to yourself too. Even if you say
You treat each child the same, there are moments
You’re closer to one or the other. Sometimes, of course,
You wonder if you haven’t failed them all, in different ways—
Times you shouldn’t have gotten angry so easily, how
You should have said “Great!”—with conviction—when one
Chose a class in Iranian film over Shakespeare or another
Gave up his scholarship. In Chronicles, David gets into 
Trouble for counting the people. It makes sense. 
There are things you really don’t want to know, like
How many days you’ve been alive or how many 
You’ve got left. Picking favorites is probably 
Like that too. Unlucky. There was the morning in April
When you first walked around Venice by yourself or the night
You and Ximena sat by Biscayne Bay, looking 
At the lights from the causeway, the occasional boat 
Passing on the water. Don’t start counting times like that.
Don’t try to remember them either. That way,
They’ll stay somewhere inside you, unchanged. You
Can’t help it though, You remember how the sidewalks 
Dipped in Roma Norte where driveways met the street,
How you had coffee and talked about Lorca. Don’t think
Like that. In a little over a month, you’ll go back to Mexico,
Order tacos again at Il Califa, and Ximena will make fun
Of your dreadful Spanish, and you’ll laugh too. That night
Will be perfect, just like all the others.

"Picking Favorites" by George Franklin. With thanks to the WB Yeats Society of New York and Sheila-Na-Gig Online, where the poem previously appeared. Used by permission of the poet.