Magical Thinking

Published in The Long Arc of Grief (Finishing Line Press 2019)

The faded bed-curtain is tied back,
showing us the small adobe alcove where she slept—
her narrow bed, fitted wall-to-wall,
a woven coverlet, the colors of llamas.
Above, her wooden cross, her rosary.
Below, the tile floor worn from centuries of knees.

And on the bed, a pair of Levi’s neatly pressed,
a small blanket wrapped in plastic,
bright white socks folded like snowballs.
All left, that through these worldly things,
worldly laws might be broken—
time, space, decay, the gravity that holds them to the bed.
Bits of wool and cotton made conduits for her healing touch.
Esperanza indesmayable, hope unfailing

People file into the cool, darkened room,
cross themselves,
take pictures with their cell phones,
return to the bright heat of the courtyard.
I wonder if they are saving their photos to the Cloud,
and if so, how they reconcile what I cannot.

My mind goes to Johann Zahn—
inventing the camera an ocean away,
at the same point in time that
she walked these cloistered halls.
Reverent student of light,
even as he lived his own monastic life. 

And Newton too—
devout as he formed the physical laws
that make sense of my world.
I cannot fathom it.
Even more, that Galileo—
father of science itself,
would see no paradox,
while I search his maps of the heavens,
and see no Heaven there.  

Still, I cannot turn away.
The owners of these lifeless things,
somewhere surrendering to tubes and syringes,
while their hopes and miseries are here,
folded into each article resting on the bed,
absorbing its woolen scent. 

Months later, Lena and I are drinking wine.
She laughs with her head thrown back, and
I think she sounds strong and upbeat.
Then she says she wants to go to Peru
to see her mother’s birthplace, and
must see the worry in my face,
because she puts a reassuring hand on mine and
tells me she isn’t planning on dying any time soon.

And yet, I suddenly remember the beatified
Sor Ana de los Ángeles Monteagudo,
her bed, the items left there,
the coolness of the darkened room,
hope and dust dancing a slow dance together in the dim light,
and find myself wishing
with all my heart, my heart, my heart
that I had something of Lena’s then,
something to lay upon the bed.