forty stories by anton chekhov

there was a nice old lady stocking the library book sale shelf 

when i grabbed forty stories by anton chekhov

she asked what i had grabbed

and i said forty stories by anton chekhov

she said she had never read him

i said i had read something by him, some stories maybe

back when i was a teenager

i didn't say this part to her but i'll tell you this now:

i was sixteen

i was excited to leave my small ohio town

go to college

drink coffee, read books, talk about books

i brought whatever chekhov book i had to this new cafe in town

there never was a good cafe in town

this one was half vintage old lady store, half coffee place

i drank a hot, black shot of espresso

sitting on a little patio 

next to the back alley

facing the police station

i was alone

(the cafe didn't last that long)

and i was reading whatever the book was

in the book, there was a train

and there were kites

i thought the kites soaring above the train were kites

like, toys or whatever

paper and wood and string

but i eventually realized my mistake 

eighteen or nineteen years later

reading some other book set in russia

(a kite is a type of bird)

anyway

now i'm thirty six

i did go to college

and now i have a job, a family, a little home

today i drank coffee

today i read a little bit of a book

and today i talked about books

with a little old lady 

who was stocking the library book sale shelf

and she asked me if anton chekhov lived in russia, like

we both knew he was russian, wrote in russian

but she wanted to know if he always lived in russia

she didn't say why she asked this

and i could speculate on it now

all these hours later

but i won't

maybe you will

whatever

(that's your decision)

i told her that was a good question

i opened up the copy of forty stories by anton chekhov

i skimmed the author bio in the back

it said he was born in russia

it said his family abandoned him when he was sixteen

it said he went to medical school

it said he traveled and lived throughout europe

and it said he died in germany

and i told her all of these things as i encountered them in the little paragraph

and when i got to the part about him dying in germany

we both chuckled

it was like, well, there you go

asked and answered

he hadn't always lived in russia

whaddya know

then we talked about other russian writers

who we've read, who we haven't

what we remembered, what we didn't remember

and we talked about libraries, how they have to get rid of books all the time

how she sometimes forgets whether she's actually already read a book she's checked out

how her friend is going blind

ah, well

this is a part of my little life

and i go on to live my little life for a little while longer

cook some zucchini cakes

play with my kids

read a little more of some book

work on this poem a little bit

do some bedtimes

walk my dogs

and when out walking my dogs i see one of my neighbors

one i've never met before

some old lady with a walker

she's saying goodnight to some home help aid

my dogs want to chase the rabbits

i see another neighbor watching a movie on a giant tv

i see the sun is setting under a smoke-smeared sky

i sometimes get afraid of things

nothing i can really define

but something you can do, i've found

to calm yourself

is to accept that you could die at any time

so my own death always feels close, familiar

i won't be surprised

how could i be?

always ready to die

and always calm

at home i take off my shoes by the door

and on the coffee table is my new, old copy of forty stories by anton chekhov

and i think about this poem

it's maybe halfway done

maybe a little less

we'll see how it goes

and i wonder when i'll actually read this book

and i think about the old lady at the library

and i think about how she's gonna die, too

and i wonder when that might be

will i finish this book before then?

will i even ever see her again?

some people die in germany

some people die up the street

i feel more and more, every day

that some people, somewhere

don't want me to care about her

to think about her

to even know anything about her

they're winning, you know

because i didn't ask her name

i couldn't even really describe her

i wasn't that invested in the conversation

but i remember how she looked at me, just one look

a sad, lucid look

very briefly

before we told each other to have a nice day

there are just so many people

so many someones

so everyone is replaceable

whoever it is, doesn't matter

maybe you'll read this and picture some old lady you also don't really know

and fill in my missing details with your own

her hair, her eyes

how she walks

the expressions she uses

the floral-print blouses she likes

and it will help you connect with the work

it will ground my abstract existence with your own concrete one

but this poem isn't about you

and it's not about the old lady i walked by today

and it's not about my kids

and it's not about my dogs

and it's not about the rabbits

and it's not even about the old lady i talked to today

anton chekhov was russian

but he didn't always live in russia

zac smith has two dogs.