Priceless

A few years ago, during an ordinary work meeting, someone casually mentioned that Isaac had become a published author.

I remember sitting there for a moment, quietly recalibrating.

Isaac?

Now, I had known Isaac for quite some time by then. In my private mental filing system, he belonged in the category I lovingly call “nerds.” I say that with great respect. Some of my favorite people in life live comfortably in Nerd Territory. They tend to know interesting things and occasionally build fascinating things. Like books, apparently.

Naturally, I ordered a copy.

When the book arrived in our mailbox, I carried it inside with the excitement of a child bringing home a science project. I could not wait to show Terry. That particular day happened to be one of Terry’s better days, which already felt like a small gift.

The moment Terry saw the cover, he burst out laughing.

Right there on the front were square-shaped turnips.

Not slightly square. Very square. Impressively square.

It was impossible not to laugh along with him.

The book, Cheap Poems, turned out to be a collection of short poems. That format worked perfectly for us. We decided to read it slowly. We treasured it. One poem at a time. That’s what we did, and also savored our time together, one moment at a time.

And so that became our little routine.

I would read a poem out loud. Sometimes we would smile. Sometimes we would laugh. Occasionally, we would pause for a moment, letting a line settle the way evening light settles across a quiet room.

One poem called “Brick House” quickly became a favorite. For Terry, who had spent years building studios and shaping spaces with his hands, it carried an extra kind of magic. He understood bricks and walls in a way most people do not. I suspect the poem felt like greeting an old friend.

After Terry passed, Isaac sent me a simple message. Just a few words letting me know he had been praying for me.

It was a small gesture.

But the kind that lands gently and stays.

Because of all this, Cheap Poems became more than a collection of poems. It became a small companion during a season when the days sometimes felt long and quiet.

Not heavy.

Just quiet.

Like sitting on a porch in the late afternoon, reading a few lines, and letting the breeze turn the page.

One poem at a time.

Which, I suppose, is not a bad way to move through life either.