What a privilege, what a trial
this stripping down to spirit and shell
strange untethering from all we've been
threads that stitch us whole, undone
together in the upside-down of
no-day
day-night
Turkey-Christmas-New Year's
dinner on a tray
we gained a new sense,
somewhere between sight and hope
scent and despair
to touch
feel the fabric of all we do
texture of smoke, beautiful trickery
excuse me a moment
while I set about my task:
not to write orders,
no physical exam,
but spin a just story
from a throng of ragged strands
Once, flipping back to days
a blessed ray of morning light
stopped
me
and it came to me
like the clearest memory of a dream:
Healing is the writing we do
to make illness and dying a story worth believing.