I wonder how much we really see? Did I see you today? Not you in relation to me, with me center stage and you playing the chorus, but you as the one-of-a-kind miracle you are? Did I see you?
I remember boys in bright orange t-shirts–kinetic, jostling and laughing outside the museum. Someone said they were cub scouts. If I close my eyes now, I can almost see them hopping the curb or balancing on one foot or making faces at themselves in the high, dark-glass windows–an expectant gaggle in high gear, loosely shepherded by adults dressed in the same day-glow orange. A short, paunchy man in a shapeless white t-shirt appeared from … somewhere. To be honest, I didn’t notice him at all until the boys had gathered around him in a suddenly quiet huddle enchanted by, of all things, his short monologue about the many uses for the rosemary that grew next to the pale stone wall.
But did I really see them? Any of them? Is even one boy imprinted on my memory?
I do remember the girl. Shoulder-length blond hair, heavy and straight. Ivory skin and rosy cheeks, like that woman in the portrait by Henri, Cori. I remember the girl spoke to us. Something about the medical exhibit I think–wickedly curved hooks and blades, leeches in formaldehyde. I remember her smile–friendly and open, inviting me to share the moment–but I can’t recall what she said. So did I really see her? Or did I only look at her?
Buechner said the artist/novelist/poet puts a frame around a given moment, asks us to pay attention–to the round-cheeked boy scout in the carrot-colored shirt; the man who hitches up his navy-blue trouser leg to squat down by the rosemary; the girl with the young face and share-a-moment smile. But how can we frame them, if we never really see them?
We miss so much, always looking but never really seeing. Did I see you today?
