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(A Time of Critical Reflection) by T. Wright
Jefferson, MD © December 28, 2001
like my father’s death,
I stopped,
realizing life is short,
to smell life’s roses.
Appropriately,
West Friendship’s Mole Hill
continues to be
a safe haven
for my revitalization.
Walking the grounds,
manicured—just enough,
wet blades of grass
lightly lick my sock-less, sandaled
feet.
Quiet,
except for the distant,
incessant dog’s barking
across
the neighboring cornfield,
I look and see a bench.
Here,
on this bench,
I take my rest.
Head bowed,
viewing the placidly
flowing stream,
no birds,
no fish.
Now,
head bowed
in reverence
atoning for my sins,
pledging my commitment
to be an instrument of peace.
A fly buzzes by.
Shooed away,
I proclaim my vitality,
not death,
left,
mercifully alone,
unimpeded,
to continue my worship.
I rise and leave my
impromptu pew
to take in
the rest of this solitary,
shadowy
sanctuary.
Met and greeted
by the loving caregivers.
Mutually embracing,
relieved—
at each others survival;
grateful—
for each others presence
for this place
and even this time—
a time of critical reflection.
* * *
Not ready to play
the one thing
that expresses
my unspeakable joy,
but to labor in capturing
the emotions
that have enveloped me
for the past 48 hours—
that dull aching
of moving through
moroseness’s
neck-deep
morass.
* * *
Upon returning home,
I retrieve blinking phone messages—
involuntarily transporting me
back to my father’s death.
I weep alone,
unobserved,
dully aching,
tired of and from
this seemly endless,
replaying of our
collective ordeal.
infused with the genuine love
so many are now freely expressing.
Later,
disembodied,
yet living voices
inquire and profess
this same love;
and when physically possible,
earnest handshakes
turn to heartfelt hugs,
as days pass
with the greatest intensity
at the site
where I knew a few lost,
and the many impacted—
again,
a reciprocal acknowledgement
of our survival and
our determination
to endure whatever
may lay ahead.
* * *
Four nights after,
I hear my type of music,
undauntedly performed—
permitted to play again,
reviving our anesthetized emotions,
at my annual
Little Washington retreat.
We were entreated to give
our collaterally damaged
brothers and sisters
the balm of our songs,
the salve of our inspiration.
* * *
And now,
a critical time of action
for I am ready
to fulfill my commitment
made at the Mole Hill
as an instrument of peace,
for my music and I
are one.
And now,
I am ready.