I Called Her
I called my sister today. “Connie, I want to wish you a Happy Birthday!”
“Well, thanks,” she said to her monastic bro. Connie just turned sixty-four, so, over the phone, she sang the song by Paul McCartney, just as I had done a year and a half ago (before an audience).
“When I get older, losing my hair
Many years from now
Will you still be sending me a Valentine
Birthday greetings, bottle of wine…”
Of course, I’ve been losing my hair since the age of twenty, when I joined the Hare Krishnas, except for that little tuft at the back, the area of the brahma-randra. As of late, there is no hair even there, to boast of. This is the usual small crop of hair, the size of the calf’s hoof-print, which is called the sikha.
It was after I spoke to Connie that I took a walk with Jay, up the street on Avenue Road. Behind a window, in a shop, there is an art display, one piece of which is a sculpture of a retro / metro monk-like yogi, sitting in a meditative pose. He sports an adorable Mohawk.
Passersby find him interesting, as do I. He’s young looking, almost child-like, and definitely not sixty-four.
Going back to Connie, I could not get very preachy with her by saying something like, “You’re not that body!” That’s never worked in the past. As far as she is concerned, I’m not a priest, but her bro. So be it!
May the Source be with you!