There were a few times when nothing drove me to extremes, and there I found all that is lauded as important, and fought for it; began to be able to consider forever as something worn in a larger size. In case there is a tunnel of shadows leading to the light, I have counted how many handshakes and apologies I will have to make along the corridor, saving my strength for the weighted effort needed, to make things right:
I am a hand shaker, and I wash feet, one after the other, a warrior who dusts with a feather, and wipes the slate clean. The line is long, and without the memory of other processions, I am surprised to feel so light in my disappearing shoes, this trailing dress becoming whiter at the sleeves. I am busy taking arms, washing feet, until I get to you.
I suppose we have forever right here, to grieve. The weight of my apology opens a long locked, lost case in the attic. Knick-knacks appear in the naming of ornaments, sparkling to a vanish in the placing of souvenir bells, our clothes turning to specks of coloured darkness, our pictures all kissed and flying up like confetti.
On my knees again, I ask you to walk the rest of the line with me, ahead are the smiling faces that always wished us well, and behind, the shades are nearly all slain dead. Again, the scene ends here. It is the shame taking all this time, to be quietly laid to rest, when hope is only that you are smiling; and faith, yet to gentle, may still gently lift my head.
