Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Number Thirty Three

The angels wait for us to listen, for the moment we are ready.  They are the teachers among us.  We are deaf with pain.  They tell the story of where we come from; what we're here to do.  We tell the story of how we were broken.

We make pictures of angels -- tall with alabaster wings.  We give them roles -- the angel of death, the angel at the gate.  But they are just us, survivors of birth and loss, coming to work at this difficult school.  With children who will not sit still, who run through the halls.

In the way we seek to be heard, they seek to be heard.  In the ways we watch helplessly while ones we love devolve, collapse, they watch us go blithely on.  Consumed with the illusion; fixing, fixing, fixing what has no remedy.

No comments:

Post a Comment