She’s on life support. Racing to get there, his Jaguar fishtails on the frozen highway. She was a beauty and elusive as the future, his mother, usually traveling on his birthday.
He felt he couldn’t fly, had to touch dirt every inch of the way. To fly would be to unpeel too fast the onion of his hurt.
She’d call. He wouldn’t answer. He was busy.
Now it’s ice he notices, gray molars locking to dark bluffs, the way ice locks his heart in steely winter logic. Then sun shimmers on ice, the lock breaks, and love flows. Relief, oh melting! as he steers toward his mother.
My Pittsburgh son haunts thrift shops, collects old rosaries, hangs them on nails down cellar, near his bathroom door.
Buried with their best crystal rosaries, crocheted among their fingers, all those old ladies trouble me when I consider how their every-day rosaries were taken by their daughters to be entombed in gold, pasteboard boxes,
until years later when the daughters were readying for their move to Florida (for the sake of the mover’s bill) lightened their load by donating the darker contents of their dresser drawers to Goodwill.
Reader, here is no know-nothing muddle-mouth grinning till his time’s up, nor this month’s charismatic hotshot— let’s be glad for that. Nor is it time for deeper, troubled things, the heaviness of swollen hands that knit our sweaters or underfed teenagers who look like my six year old, sweet in his warm bed. Shall I go on, then, or end it?
It’s not even an occasion for lyrical greatness (who can bear or hear it?), or honoring the slain and scars of veterans (how to sustain it?) or excursions on hermeneutical wings along the Word. Or less estimable, more complicated forms of happiness: breathless days when we became better than ourselves, as if awaking from a dream.
Let other songs bless or curse with big decibels. I leave this business, such as it is, to higher-minded poets or tireless annalists.
I sing simply of Love, of grace, and those graces who are your friends, warm with life and giving you grief, playfully—these late evenings in December. And I sing of such beautiful people, even closer, safe and asleep nearby, here and there, her and her and him, so pleasing and peace be with them, and you too, Reader, you too.