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. He was 88 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. My mind returns to eyes,
to this morning and the eyes looking
back at me from the mirror, looking
back at the me who keeps showing up
for the whole disaster, marveling at how
much they resemble my father's, how cloudy
and distant they present themselves at times,
how the lightning blood-streaked swollen
mess they are can also exude an Aurora Borealis
wonder, flashing their blue-green one moment,
and their tired grey the next, how extraordinary
they are, and were, even this morning, night
after night of no sleep or restless sleep at best.
But there's something this night in the fullness
and blinding white of a winter moon which arrests
my eye thoughts, brings to mind 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 eases
the uneasiness such careful introspection elicits,
allows forgiveness and comforting enlightenment
that comes with knowing the soul-cleansing
goodness that prevails when cleaning out the eyes
of a gunky-eyed dog, the wrapping of gifts,
the anticipation of children and grandchildren
arriving in the light of a new day, 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 is followed by the unexpected relaxing
of the shoulders, the sense that gravity no longer
exists as my tired self rises from the porch
and glides to the bedroom, eases the body into
bed and wraps it up in the ebony and white comforter,
gives itself over to the serendipitous moment the
body responds when it knows it has done all it can.
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. He was 88 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. My mind returns to eyes,
to this morning and the eyes looking
back at me from the mirror, looking
back at the me who keeps showing up
for the whole disaster, marveling at how
much they resemble my father's, how cloudy
and distant they present themselves at times,
how the lightning blood-streaked swollen
mess they are can also exude an Aurora Borealis
wonder, flashing their blue-green one moment,
and their tired grey the next, how extraordinary
they are, and were, even this morning, night
after night of no sleep or restless sleep at best.
But there's something this night in the fullness
and blinding white of a winter moon which arrests
my eye thoughts, brings to mind 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 eases
the uneasiness such careful introspection elicits,
allows forgiveness and comforting enlightenment
that comes with knowing the soul-cleansing
goodness that prevails when cleaning out the eyes
of a gunky-eyed dog, the wrapping of gifts,
the anticipation of children and grandchildren
arriving in the light of a new day, 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 is followed by the unexpected relaxing
of the shoulders, the sense that gravity no longer
exists as my tired self rises from the porch
and glides to the bedroom, eases the body into
bed and wraps it up in the ebony and white comforter,
gives itself over to the serendipitous moment the
body responds when it knows it has done all it can.
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