August 1: Poem from "Kyrie," Friends, Chicken Quesadilla

Poem from Kyrie

by:  Ellen Bryant Voigt

I always thought she ought to have an angel.
There's one I saw a picture of, smooth white,
the wings like bolts of silk, breasts like a girl's--
like hers--eyebrows, all of it.  For years
I put away a little every year,
but her family was shamed by the bare grave,
and hadn't they blamed me for everything,
so now she has a cross.  Crude, rigid, nothing
human in it, flat dead tree on the hill,
it's what you see for miles, it's all I see.
Symbol of hope, the priest said, clearing his throat,
and the rain came down and washed the formal flowers.
I guess he thinks that dusk is just like dawn.
I guess he had forgot about the nails.

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This poem is all about what brings comfort.  How people define or picture hope.  For some, it's a beautiful angel with wings like bolts of silk and breasts like a girl's.  For others, it's a cross on a hill, washed with rain.  However, hope is often accompanied by pain and nails.

This afternoon, I got together with friends I haven't seen for a long while.  I used to work with them, and they are some of the best people I know.  Best friends who have seen me through a lot of difficult times.  We sat outside of a restaurant and had a socially distanced lunch.  They're all OR nurses, so wearing masks is second nature to them. 

We caught up on family and gossip.  Talked about vacations and kids.  Wondered about the uncertainty of the future.  The last time we were together like this, in the fall, the word "pandemic" belonged in the history books, and George Floyd was still alive. 

Each of the people at the table knew my sister, Sally, to greater and lesser extents.  Three of them were at her funeral.  One of them was standing next to her bed when she took her last breath.  They're a part of who I am.

I took great comfort in being with these individuals today.  They reminded me of better times and bitter times.  Angels and nails.  That there are people in my life who care about me deeply. 

Plus, the chicken quesadilla I had was pretty damn good, too.

For all those miracles of friendship, Saint Marty gives thanks.