The First Earth Day

I was there, you know, at your age,

For the first Earth Day.

I stood up to my parents.

Told them we needed to get rid of our cars.

Stood there against the uproarious laughter

And declared I would never have a car!

I meant it, too.

I knew better than them.

I thought I could do it –

Just walk away from it all –

Be mighty! Be the Change!

Simple.

I didn’t see it coming –

The powerful forces

That would eat away at my determination,

Wear down my resolve,

One little missed bus at a time,

One non-existent bus at a time,

One freezing wait at a bus stop at a time;

The relentless slog against the elements

And a system designed to wear you down.

To corrode your will,

Waiting until it’s frayed around the edges

To surround you with the song of the sirens.

Those silky voices that sing

Sweet nothings in your ear,

Promising endless ease and plush,

So nice, so fluffy, so THERE.

‘Why resist? Come on, give in!

You know you want to.

Why carry on with this crazy ideal of yours?

Look, there’s plenty here for you.’

Giving in is a gradual thing,

Almost imperceptible.

One little change here,

One little excuse there,

Made while navigating the rocky road

Of terrible choices.

And now,

Fifty years later,

I drive faster than the speed limit,

Unable to stay awake in the garden with Jesus,

Like the silly disciples nodding off

Before the crucifixion.

Mary Benefiel