“Take
up your crutches
and walk!” reminiscent of
Gospel mandates to
mat-ridden cripples,
and up I go, the days,
well, more the day of
hospital bedridden idleness
a thing of the past.
Posey belt accoutrements,
crutch supported first hops,
up and down a flight
of steps, in and out
of the low seated
car permanently parked
in therapy, and rising
from mattresses seemingly
inches from the floor.
Seven days, a mere
week in which God
created the world,
and so on the seventh
day, I enter my new world,
a new way of life
utterly, permanently
transformed into
something it never
had been, you
whisk my body away
from this environment
of injections, blood draws
and IV poles and
come to claim me
once more as your
own, back to the
world we created
twenty-eight years
before, a well-worn
path from bathroom
to bed to chair
defining my future
for the next eight weeks
with you, “Father Ted” and
the BBC my constant
companions.
March twenty-third,
a day much like
many others except
that new life enters
our world and our
family through the
womb of our daughter,
Meg. Easy pregnancies
and labor intensive
deliveries, the legacy
passed on from mother
to daughter, you
remain by her side,
professional nurse
and professional mom,
while I, envious,
in the isolation of my
chair at home, carefully
monitor the hours and
the phone, one ear listening
for the phone, the other
ear haphazardly listening
to the television. Like
bells tolling from
church towers, the
phone tolls in the news
of new life, announcing
another dark-haired beauty,
described as Alyssa,
emerging from Meg’s
womb to light,
all parts made to perfection.
One must follow the
proper protocol for
formal introductions,
and, so as the
glorified Jesus enters
and fills the Upper Room
with his Spirit and peace,
you and Meg enter
into my isolation,
and bestow upon me
our granddaughter.
My world transformed,
the image frozen in time,
I hold within my arms
the fragile future, and
contemplate new
beginnings for me,
for you, and for
our grandchild.
Easter Resurrection
swirls around us
the streak of light
on the photo, no
errant light from a
window, nor misuse
of camera, just
my sister, Mary,
come to visit in
her glorified form,
across multiple dimensions,
the distance of light
years that separate
past, and present, and future,
the great grandniece
for whom she has
been awaiting. Mary gazes
upon that which
God has created anew.
You observe this
anomaly of light,
aware, that what
was present was
more than just
grandpa holding
grandchild. From over
long worn centuries,
the hands and arms
of countless ancestors
reach out at that moment
to hold their future through
my arms and my hands.
Death may have
begun March but
the Resurrection always
has the last say.
From your chair,
you intuitively observe
in this one moment, the
Paschal Mystery
and understand.
No comments:
Post a Comment