TRANSCRIPT

I’m Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown. 

My parents have lived in the same house since I was six years old. I grew up there, and now, to my kids, it’s Mimi and Papa’s house. It hasn’t changed much at all — new paint, new carpet, new furniture, sure, but the objects I remember from my childhood are still there. The painting of the ice skaters. The large framed print of the three little girls reading a book together; it always reminded my mom of my two younger sisters and me. The sand art brought back from the West Coast, maybe from a trip to California. The framed photos of my grandparents. The mantel clock. The tiny rocking chair that belonged to my mother’s mother when she was a baby.

It's strange to think of inheriting these things after my parents are gone. It’s strange to think of these objects living anywhere else but in that house. 

I wonder what objects in my house my kids will feel attached to, what things they will associate with me and with home. I don’t really wear jewelry, so there isn’t a sentimental ring or necklace I could pass down, but we do have a lot of art in our house: paintings, photos, framed prints. And a lot of books and music! I’m not sure if inheriting my poetry library or record collection excites them, but they’ll certainly have a lot to choose from. 

My guess, though? The family photos and Christmas ornaments will be what they attach to most. My kids are sentimental and nostalgic, like their mother.

Today’s poem is about fathers and sons, and about loss. It is also about the small, shining parts of our lives that survive us and get passed down to the next generation.

White Hot Star
by W. Todd Kaneko

The knife my father kept in his car was gone 
by the time I got to his house—nothing
but proof of insurance and the gas tank

half-empty. I claimed a different knife I found 
in his desk because every boy should inherit
his father’s knife—I tell my son this

when he looks at the old black-handled 
blade I have hidden in the utility drawer
at our house. This morning he told me

how a black hole is born when a star dies,
life collapsing and leaving a blank space
that swallows the light, the comets,

the street, the station wagon—everything
extinguished, lost. Neither of us understands 
the science of gravity, but I know how it feels

to live without a knife: tear what you can 
with your hands, rip everything with your teeth,
and when the lights go out, feel nothing

and imagine someone else’s fingers
tracing the glint of your father’s knife,
its keen edge against their thumb.

When my son and I talk about courage,
he claims the dark is the only thing
he fears and I want to tell him, one day

the darkness will swallow everything
and someone who loves you will leave you
something bright to keep you safe.

"White Hot Star" by W. Todd Kaneko. Used by permission of the poet.