Hope is a strange thing. It allows you to survive terrible experiences. Lifts you out of the darkness. I have some good friends who see my faith in God as naive. A hold-over from times before nuclear bombs and modern medicine and science. That may be true.
However, in a world full of hate, I will choose hope. Every time.
Saint Marty hopes his sister is sitting in a field of strawberries today, listening to ABBA songs, watching my son and daughter grow and grow like summer ferns.
Emmaus
by: Martin Achatz
My sister lies in her bed
while her neighbors scream
in the hallway outside her door.
My sock, something’s wrong
with my sock, moans one voice.
And, Give it back, give it back now,
begs another, so full of longing
that I want to find its owner,
reach into my pants pocket,
empty its contents into
the speaker’s hands, hope
that, among the five quarters,
scrap of paper with a phone number,
burned-out Christmas bulb,
Tootsie Roll wrapper, maybe,
just maybe, he may find
what he’s lost. My sister
has grown deaf to these voices.
She grips her bedrails,
grimaces, pulls herself closer
to me, the effort making her
shake as if some fist
is pounding on the door of her
body. Do you want a drink?
I ask. No, she says.
Are you warm enough? I ask.
She nods, closes her eyes.
Should I change the channel?
I ask. No, she says again.
Then silence as she drifts
like a vagrant kite on a windy
day. I wonder if she dreams
her body whole, climbs through
the window of her room, begins
walking down the road, between
the snowbanks, under the moon.
Maybe she meets other people
who tell her about the things
they can’t find. Socks. Cocker spaniels.
Birthday cards. Wives. Poems.
Husbands. Photographs. Friends.
The road is crowded with loss.
But they all keep moving, like pilgrims
on some cold Easter morning, hoping
to meet the one who will have
directions, will know how to get home.
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