CHRISTMASTIME AT SUNSHINE NURSING HOME

"I think they come at eight,"
Liz tells me, doling out my pills
like Mama used to hand me coins
for Sunday school, then knot them
in the corner of a hanky
to fold around my fist.

"Who's going to come?" I ask.
I think she knows I know,
knows I ask it just to keep her
in the room to talk some time away.
With Meg, across the hall,
she lingers long and chats.
I'm not like Luke says Mary was.
She kept it -- what the shepherds said
and all -- and "pondered in her heart."
I'm sick to death of that.
Pondering, I mean.
Bedfast with my busted hip,
a scrawny, clipped-wing bird,
I'd rather talk than ponder, that's for sure!

"The kids -- the carolers," says Liz.
"From Prince of Peace in town."

They come each year and crowd
inside the entranceway to sing,
huddled like a herd of frightened fawns.
Their cheeks burn rouge-red from the cold.
"So young and angel-faced," Meg will say again.
"They sing so sweet."

I'll only hear, not see, this year.
Unless ...
Once, I think, they sang
and then walked through the halls.
Some stuck their heads in doors,
said "merry Christmas" and "God bless."

I hope they will again this time.
I'll have a question for them,
maybe more than one.
"What grade are you in school?" I'll ask.
"Tell me who you are, tell me what you dream,
where you want to go, what you hope to be."
And one of them will come and sit
and talk awhile and maybe hold my hand.
And be for me an angel of the Lord
with tidings of great joy.

YOU DECIDE

"God . . . will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain any more . . ."
- Revelation 21:4

Let’s say you were being
taken on a tour of heaven
shown around the place
invited to ask questions
and let’s suppose you were
tremendously impressed
(as you no doubt would be)
until finally when the tour
was ending you asked
the only question that mattered
. . . what about grief?
and your guide said
It Is Not Permitted

Would you stay?

CONTRAST

Our new neighbors have put up
their Christmas lights, have festooned
their shrubs with them, spread
them across the bare branches
of their maple tree, trailed them
over the ledges of their windows, strung
them fetchingly around their front
door. It’s lovely. Really, it is.
You might even, if you are given to
hyperbole, call it breathtaking.

However, it makes me think that
our usual practice of turning on
our front porch light might, this year,
be regarded, by some, as inadequate.

AT THE BIRD FEEDER

There was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.
And I saw the angels which stood before God and to them were given seven trumpets.
-- Revelation 8:1-2

If you stand perfectly still
long enough and close
your eyes you will hear
miniature explosions,
the whirr of wings.

Imagine, if you like,
that you are standing
in the court of heaven,
part of a number
which no man can number
and all creation is on tiptoe,
breathless, waiting
for the fanfare.

Don’t be surprised to find,
to the amazement of both
the chickadees and yourself,
that you have fallen on your knees.

FRUGALITY

The woman whose seat next
to mine on the Philly to Chicago
flight is -- I don’t know -- say
70, maybe 75.
She’s reading a biography
of Truman. We chat about
that and the weather and
the coming holidays. "So what
do you want for Christmas?"
I say for no reason whatsoever.

Her face clouds (yes,
faces really can do that)
then brightens: "A Lexus."

I mumble something about
cars, the good ones and not so
good ones, tell her I drive
a Chevy and she laughs.

"I’m not laughing at you.
I’ve had the same
car for 20 years.
A Lexus! For heaven’s sake,
what would I do with a Lexus?"

Which makes me wish I could
send one to her house
tied up in a red ribbon.

SATISFACTION

You do it each November --
prop the extension ladder
up against the gutters,
climb up, shaky,
look down as little as possible,
stretch out your arm,
pull the leaves,
twigs, and other detritus
towards you and
fling them earthward.

When you’re done
you go inside and wait
for the cold rains.

You remember there
are few things more
gratifying than listening to
the gurgle of water

tumbling

through

the

downspout

WHAT WAS AND WHAT IS

Dog Walkers -- October

Until last spring
we could walk our yellow lab
down a rutted stony lane
flanked on both sides
by dock, thistle and dandelion

till we came to charred wood
that once was a home
and next to it what must have been,
years back, a small barn.
Just beyond it stood

the only building that had
survived the fire. Across the top
of the door some wit had
painted in bold precise letters:
Ye Old Outhouse.

All of it has disappeared.
Big earth-moving machines
scraped and smoothed it
all away. New houses have
sprung up like mutant mushrooms.

Now we walk Dinah somewhere else.

　
Contractor -- Last January

When we draw up the master
plan, let’s have the street
run between these two foundations.
I think we can use some of those
stones somewhere or maybe
we can sell them to whats-his-name,
that old guy over in Waynesboro
who still does mason work.
Do you think any of the wood
from that old outhouse is salvageable?


Home Owner -- November

Well, we did pay a little
more than we planned to
but we really like it.
The contractor promised
we could move in by
the first of last month
and he only missed it by
a week and a half.

Yes, it’s a great view to the west.
That’s the Tuscarora ridge
over there and I’m told
that the grove of cedars
down there used to be
a home for deer.
The neighbors are nice,
I guess, we don’t really
know them very well.
Lots of kids though.

Come on in. It’s turned colder.
I think Kelly has coffee on.

Oh, it used to be a farm.
Last week a man and woman
came by, walking their dog,
said there back of our garage
is where the outhouse was.
Hard to imagine, isn’t it?