You just
have to wait for it.
A birthday,
and I’m in the kitchen getting the cake ready. Three candles, or ten, or twenty
– doesn’t matter. I light them and carry the cake into the dining room, and
watch. There it is, the smile. More spectacular with each passing year, because
I can see the little child, first peeking out through the adolescent’s eyes,
and then the adult’s - and I realize that essentially nothing changes. This
wonderful person is still my child and always will be, and the smile – well,
the smile has the power to set my world right.
I just have
to wait for it.
There are
evenings when I feel as though my soul is bruised. As though nothing I do could
ever be good or right; and even though the last patient called us angels I know
that her hip is broken and essentially her life is beginning a sharp decline
here, today. The best way, of course, to deal with that knowledge is to shove
it aside, and by and large, I am successful at that, but sometimes – well, sometimes
I feel that it makes me a lesser person to bleed for other people; it costs too
much.
So I’m on my way home in this
wretched, bad funk, and I just want to choke somebody. But then – wait for it,
wait for it – the angle of the setting sun changes and all of this filthy,
tiresome March snow is bathed in a
perfect lavender light. Norah Jones is singing “The Long Day is Over” on my
radio, and a peace – a tranquility so clear and sharp it is nine tenths painful
– comes over me and I know that I am going to be okay.
There are moments in our lives of
sheer beauty. Quiet moments so quick we can miss them if we’re not looking for
them – sweet, evocative notes and birthday candles and twilight shadows on
snow.
Wait for it, wait for it.
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