It’s already been two years
since I got the call
that my father had rung 911
– chest pains –
a stay at Sinai Grace,
and every single idiosyncrasy I’d miss
flashing behind my eyes.
Which bit of tang
helps one find sweetness in the move,
the sorting that he’s still around for,
for better or worse.
It’s just over two years
and/or just under nine months
since my nieces were born,
various degrees of early, tiny, and fragile.
Babies can die, said my pastor,
being subject to death,
they were subject to sin,
God be praised for baptism, of course,
defense against the second death –
but God be praised more
that these tiny breaths
(and/or huge, red, screeching cries)
persist, right now, against the first.
And now it’s just over two weeks
Since hearing the sweetest “no”
– that your body is not in rebellion
(well. no more than is common),
that today will not be the day to fight
to quell that invisible uprising.
Surely there are sour notes,
somewhere along the days
but by God I can’t taste a one of them
over the profoundly sweet relief
that today is not that day.