And under running laughter!

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
(poem read in grammar school)


I file one nail, stop to see how I’ve done, and then move to the next. Maureen has opened her eyes, but isn’t seeing anything, or not that I can tell. She stares up and to the right, at the numbers on the monitor, or the lines running to the IV pump.

Through this, my mother repeats something about God. I don’t mean to be condescending when I talk to her, but something lashes out when she goes on. I wait for it, and then I watch it. It confuses me, because I’m not proud, or hadn't been.

The woman across the hall gave birth to a five-pound, nine-ounce baby boy. An embollism left her comatose. The nurses wheel her child down the hall to the father, who leans against a door jamb. He stands very quietly, listening to an older woman. She is trying to comfort him. They speak in Portuguese.

I catch Jesus. He says it.

O, thank you Lord, for these little moments.