Her twisted body sentenced her
to wheelchair and bed
but could not exile delight.
My visits, few enough, it's true,
were welcomed as if she really
did remember who I was.
What I learned about her was
sketchy, episodic, told
in bursts like a four-year-old.
Talking cost her effort, her
voice raspy, her face red.
She preferred talking to listening.
It was her chance to shine,
to be someone of consequence.
I learned to listen.
She guided me into
and through the fifty years of
her contracted world.
I found, to my surprise,
a place absent of complaint
or fear or sulk or rage.
And when, about to go, I'd
say, each time, would you like
a prayer? Her face lit up.
I'd say a line, "Our Father
who art . . ." and
wait to hear her echo.
Then, half-way through,
remembering, she'd race ahead
to "trespass against us."
I wondered what she knew of
trespass, hers or others, what
need she had of forgiveness.
And then we came to what
I still remember most.
Her eyes squeezed shut,
Her fervency fervent,
she prayed ". . . and lead
us into temptation. Amen."
And I wondered if, maybe,
her version made
as much sense as the original.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
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I love it!
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