Thursday, February 6, 2014

Precious

There’s definitely no Santa Claus in here. But there’s hope.

More hope and more prayer than all the midnight masses in the world.

There are no Christmas carols here.

But the voices of nurses, chime with a sweetness no heavenly host could compare with.

Stringy festoons of tinsel and stars that quiver in the draft of the air conditioner, glitter into a mirage of next Christmas.

Tomorrow we will wear silly Santa hats and drink wine.

We will forget about this poison that courses our veins.

We will live in the Lord’s birthday.

We will smile for cameras. We will try.

But today we hold our breaths, afraid.

We'll look around and take stock

Comparing sizes of misfortune or fortune.

We listen to valorous stories, of wise men and women following stars of hope

Survivors who battle an enemy that inches closer. 

Rosary beads mark time as an expensive packet of hope, dispenses a steady trickle of chance.

We wonder how did we ever get here,

Who decides whose name gets picked in these things,

We lock horns with fate and pitifully rage.

We grapple with this betrayal from a god we trusted

We reel every time, as if punched in the guts.

We fight tears and our misplaced sense of injustice

We take a deep breath and hold on to dear life.

Suddenly dearer than it ever was.

When we spend Christmas Eve in a chemo ward.









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