Be Still and Write

Grief has already arrived.  He was not invited, but he came anyway.  He stands swaying in the shadows during slow songs, twirling his drink patiently.  Waiting. I glance sideways sometimes and see him, but do not meet his gaze or acknowledge him.   I will not offer a chair or refill. He will not share our meals or join us on walks around the neighborhood. He stays in the shadows until I must speak directly to him. I didn’t realize he would arrive so early, but I refuse to rush. So I curl up on your shoulder and listen to you breathe. I slow my own inhale and exhale, and pray each night. Common prayers,  mundane pleas from a tiny life. Grief can stand there while the ice in his glass slowly melts and droplets slide down the outside,  shadows enveloping him like a coming storm.  He may be imposing, but he need not be welcomed. We lay in this bed as another day begins,  blue jays squawking,  spring light tumbling through tree leaves one more tim...

You know that evangelical belief some hold where the righteous shall be suddenly taken up? My Catholic heart doesn’t buy it.  Eucharist spontaneously transforming into human flesh and the mother of God appearing to children in Portugal or Yugoslavia or ushering in the rose covered tilma of Juan Diego? All this is true. But righteous humans saved from all suffering as a reward for not having sex before wedlock while loudly and quietly judging the rest of us for who we love or our use of expletives or alcohol? I don’t think so.  What will be ushered in one glorious morning, will be a rapture of the things of man.  All of our egotistical creations will be gone in an instant.  These trees, lined up in our neighborhood can stay.  Dirt paths lined by maples all the same age and height will be a lovely echo of our past attempts to think we can assert order Or that we should.  Not sure if the lawns stay or go, But the truck with the wooden trailer on my street with...