Bathed In Light

I clean Molly's gunky eye
out, hours now since I finished
my wrapping duties, and take a break
on the screened-in porch, moon full
above me, clear and white, and I think
about the silver dollar my great uncle
gave me the last time I saw him
at the old folks home, before he set
the room on fire, smoking his Camels,
O2 pulled off his face long enough to savor
one of his old habits, habits being these tricky
things that die hard. 88 he was when he passed,
not from lung cancer or a myocardial
infarction or even a stroke, just from the bad
luck of a stubborn pneumonia and his own
breaking heart, the love of his life gone
ten years since, and I think about my own
eyes this morning in the mirror, looking
back at the me who refuses to die, how much
like my father's they are, how cloudy
and distant they present themselves,
how the lightning blood-streaked swollen
mess they are still resonates the constant
blue-green, how extraordinary they are, even
this morning, night after night of no sleep
or restless sleep at best. But there's something
in the fullness of the moon, the amazement
(you see it takes little to amaze me)
of making my fingers work wonders
with red and green and ribbons and bows,
that just eases the uneasiness enough
to forgive, to think there is good to be found
in gunky-eyed dogs, the wrapping of gifts,
the waiting for the kids to get here, the hope
that they find under the tree something more
than a gift, something that tells them Mom
knows them better than they'd ever thought.
All of this followed by the unexpected relaxing
of the shoulders, the serendipitous way the body
responds knowing it has done all it can.