Transcript

I’m Ada Limón and this is The Slowdown.

If you’ve ever worked retail, or just been in a store, you know the power behind the impulse buy at the checkout counter. When I worked at a bookstore all through high school and college, we’d put little stacks of clever postcards, magnetic poetry kits, notepads, stickers, pens, and easy gifts on the counter for that last minute purchase. It’s said that about 1/3rd of all shoppers make an impulse buy every week. And so we’d get creative, display those enticing items we’d anticipate our customers needing. I’d make signs that made everything seem affordable. It was smart business.

But when I was a kid, the checkout counter seemed more like a world of wonders. I didn’t see innovative marketing, I saw everything I ever wanted — all together right there by the cash register. I can still remember my mother pulling me away from brightly packaged candy bars and slick magazines, strawberry lipgloss, and ice cold sodas. I’m sure I threw a fit now and again, and I’m sure I got a candy bar now and again too. But it was always a negotiation. I’d promise to save half of my candy bar for later, or maybe I’d promise to be good on the long drive home.

In today’s poem, the checkout counter negotiation becomes a lesson. A father stands with his daughter and together, they decide what last minute item is worthy of purchasing. It’s a good reminder of how parents have to teach children not just what they want now, but what they’ll continue to love once they get it home. The tenderness in this poem reminds me that the lessons are always a two way street. The father thinks he’s teaching, but he’s learning too.

Bonsai Primer
by Zang Di

Translated from Chinese by Eleanor Goodman.

At the IKEA checkout, a tiny curiosity
nearly stirred your pocket money.
Each time I brought you along,
the wait in line made human creativity
seem as funny as showing off.
It was already hard to keep you
from seeing through a father’s teachings. I tried all the tricks,
but mostly I steeled myself
and showed that hidden behind the father’s role
was a friend. Will you remember
to water it twice a week?
“I will.” The right answer is
“I promise.” But deep down,
I felt guilty, I shouldn’t have taught you
to make promises so young.
“And I know it’s called a provision tree, it’s from Mexico.”
OK then. You reminded me that the leaves
were too pretty for it to be a kapok.
Was there anything left to teach you?
Suppose the answer was yes—then to teach you
was to teach myself.
I loved you so much I could tell
you loved me even more, more fervently, even more unconditionally.
Despite all the dangers, you still let me
bring you into this world. In recompense,
the best I could do
was let you have your curiosity; encourage you
to see which things you experienced
came from something you actually enjoyed—
like that time when I indulged you
and bought that little bonsai,
guiding you to identify it right away
as your tiny sister of the plant world.

"Bonsai Primer" by Zang Di. Translated by Eleanor Goodman. Used by permission of the translator.