Here in Metuchen, here in the center
of the center of New Jersey, here in
the middle of Middlesex County—slowed
by, choked by traffic; cloaked in oak and elm—
someone is singing. Someone is tying
toe shoes. Someone is playing piano.
Someone is learning to swim. Someone is
timing the track team. Someone is waiting
for a latté. Someone is schmearing cream
cheese on a bagel. Someone is watching
a truck get stuck under a bridge. Someone
is picking up dry cleaning six weeks late.
Someone is meeting an old friend for lunch.
Someone is buying a teddy bear at
the bank. Someone is answering a hotline and
unlocking the doors that make a person
more of a person. The chief of police
moonlights tossing pizza dough. The tavern
owner irons her pink organdy dress.
The superintendent of schools squeezes
out of his tiny green two-seat top-down
convertible at the supermarket.
While the men at the 2 nd Baptist Church
bake sweet potato pies for the Country Fair,
someone in the choir loft is singing.
Here in Metuchen, we are neighbors, not
nameless. We are volunteers; donating
in droves to construct, support, and sustain
community. We teach our children that
they are unburdened by inequity.
The former governor holds his wife’s hand
as they cross Main Street. The mayor marries
two accountants on the judge’s day off.
The rabbi writes his USA Today
Op Ed column. The councilman stops work
on repairing the board lawyer’s porch
to rush off to a planning board meeting.
The crossing guard removes her vest and badge
and picks up her video camera.
The optician talks of pastries filled with
custard (not cream) while fitting bifocals.
Children float pumpkin lanterns on Tommy’s
Pond. The pharmacist and the reporter
harmonize on harmonicas at the
Senior Center. The travel agent makes
coffee for the craft show on Borough Hall
lawn. The Board of Ed President pours the
wine at the Friends of the Library dinner.
While repairing a gas lamppost, someone
from Public Works is singing barbershop.
Here in Metuchen, we cultivate shared
idyllic delusions of perfect place.
We live face-to-face closeness; with
a wholly-owned acre unknown to most.
Across our property line, Beryl grows
sunflowers, tomatoes and red peppers.
Ron sweeps snow from her part of the sidewalk.
Marsha chases rabbits rooting in the
radishes. Rich returns Mike’s socket wrench.
Regina tells Marky to wash his hands
before dinner. Hayley delivers Girl
Scout cookies. Deanie plans our block party.
Kate runs across the street to model her
Communion dress; Ashok says she looks
like a little bride. Ming takes a picture.
George at the post office knows my name and
all my addresses. He’s my neighbor, too.
We smile from a doorway, waving and front
stoop chatting across backyards, in driveways,
on sidewalks. We live so close, we can peek
in next door’s windows and watch through undrawn
drapes. But we don’t. While we set out tables,
signs, boxes, and balloons for the town-wide
garage sale, sound sifts through the window screens—
someone is singing show tunes in the shower.
Here in Metuchen it is much the same,
season to season, change is hard to trace.
Trolley tracks only appear when Main Street
is resurfaced. Only Phyllis and Jack
know the distance the granite milestones measure
along the Lincoln Highway. The trough that
once watered worn horses is only filled
with flowers. Bill is on his knees pulling
weeds among ghosts of the Revolution.
An artist paints Chief Matockshoning on
Nella’s back fence and tries to get his cape
to drape and fold like her neighbor’s laundry.
John Ciardi’s former student, writes a poem
about her husband—the retired music
teacher who conducts his own symphony.
An electrician replaces wiring
installed by Thomas Alva Edison.
Someone is tagged out at third during a
benefit softball game to fund treatment
for our family doctor’s family.
Someone places a wreath. Someone leaves lilies.
Someone leaves stones. So it plays, season to
season, we remember and we forget.
While someone hums the melody, someone
is singing long abandoned harmonies.
Here in Metuchen, we call ourselves the
Brainy Boro. We are 100 years
proud that we are and are not provincial.
Opportunity knocks on our doors like
the volunteer fire department, first aid
squad, meter readers, and politicians.
We give our children dreams to be anything,
anyone in mind’s eye or ear. This is the
weaving and breath of home. This our exit,
on-ramp, and crossroads. The train takes Brian
to his job producing news for the rest
of the world. We tie yellow ribbons on
porch posts waiting for Bobby to come home
from Iraq cheered by the rest of the world.
We nurture David’s magic then watch him
perform illusions for the rest of the world.
A former drum majorette sings amidst
honey locust trees in Memorial
Park before she sings arias for the
rest of the world. Even when we leave, home
never leaves us. This is the space that keeps
and transcends time; always the hearthstone and
heart of our hope. We are 100 years
proud that we are no more and no less than
we are. And so, someone is still singing.