Liberty #8 – Wimple

Winter last year, we started praying together. My friend’s dad gravely ill, and I took the torch of this and–alone–let it go out.

Thought I’d run streets with it, olympiads, craddling circles around him, cushioning him from the blow, begging god, but I let it go out. Thought if we did it together it would mean more to whatever’s there
and that they can read my mind anyway, put my thoughts in there already, why do I need to say it out loud?

So I didn’t do my prayer tour and my friend’s dad died after all–and my own baby too–because I didn’t pray hard, long enough but I know they know how much I was trying. And you too, rooted at my foot, pushing your pain into mine and willing it to bend, to crumble, to deliver itself, to ignite something of beauty and of worth again. But I know now that when life goes out it’s with a whimper, not a crow’s song. Whetstone burring. An envelope licked shut.