A child said, What is the grass?

Fifteen years ago in August, I was about to become a high school senior. I had gotten my driver's license within the previous year. I had turned seventeen a couple of months earlier, and I was trying to figure out where to go to college. In a few respects, things haven't changed since - I still have the same haircut, I'm still single, and I still look too young for my age. But in far more numerous ways my life has changed over the past fifteen years. I graduated from high school, college (the second one, after transferring from the first), and grad school. I went to Russia once, Canada three times, and moved to Florida (for now). And I've successfully held six different jobs, the most recent two in my specialized field of study. Birthdays (including my 30th) and holidays have been celebrated, vacations taken, and time spent with family and friends.

It's been a wonderful fifteen years, even when I was struggling with making decisions or my funds were tight or schoolwork loomed in a seemingly never-ending parade of papers and exams or when I was far away from home. But wonderful though these years have been, they haven't lessened how very much I've missed you, Pop. I'll find a green place to read this aloud at some point today, as I have for the previous fourteen Augusts, but I thought that this blog being devoted to poetry, albeit normally a different kind, it was only fitting to post it here as well:

A child said, What is the grass?
by Walt Whitman
A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them; It may be you are from old people and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps, And here you are the mother's laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues! And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps. What do you think has become of the young and old men? What do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere; The smallest sprouts show there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceased the moment life appeared. All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. Love you Pop, always. Laurence J. Sasso, Sr. (March 14, 1920 - August 17, 1995)