I have been selling peanuts
by Lisa Wiens Heinsohn
I have been selling peanuts at a little tourist stand
my whole life with my back to the Grand Canyon, and until yesterday
never once had I turned around.
Yesterday someone passed me with a mirror and I split wide open. Trembling, trembling with my eyes shut, almost afraid to see,
I turned,
dared to look,
and before me was the ecstasy of light, of red rock,
of immensity beyond imagination
right in my backyard.
Ahhhhh, my heart cries, it sputters, it groans
All the years! All the years selling peanuts! What have I done, dear God, where have I been?
I have not waited
even to tie my shoes. My peanuts lie, torn paper bags, strewn on the ground,
the cash register open, dollar bills flapping in the wind. All forgotten, relics.
I stumble around, around the vastness of this unimaginable beauty, my heart breaking at each new crevice, each
canyon wall of light and dust and rock and piñon pine,
each sunrise,
sunset,
the possibilities only beginning,
A galaxy of rock and splendor to explore.
Let my bones lie in some corner of this miracle, this mystery. I will die happy.
