Her Hope

We all know

how it feels

to be left.

To presume someone’s support

and then be struck by its absence:

the soul on earth suffers no greater darkness. 

But her body does.

Her body knows

how it feels 

to be left

alone. 

Not just without a friend,

but without people

or things,

except the chair 

to which she is strapped.

This is darkness.

A brief brush on her cheek 

comes suddenly, then leaves.

She reaches, gropes 

for the stunning glimpse of light

that has gone

Where? Our question, not hers.

It seems that our senses give birth to the imagination,

which gives birth to the inquiry,

in which hope inheres.

Our hope, not hers. 

The hand is not.

The light is not.

It was, and now it is not.

This is what it means 

to be left alone. 

But 

this 

is not 

the end.

I have witnessed laughter

with no observable cause.

Beams of light

sporadically emerge

from within her darkness

and strike me

again and 

again.

While creation is groaning,

this little girl grins. 

Why? Our question, not hers. 

Perhaps our senses bore the imagination,

which bears far too many inquiries. 

We see through a mirror dimly,

look only at ourselves, 

and know nothing of silence divine.

She sees through something unseen,

looks at something beyond,
listens to God in the silence,

and smiles.

See and hear, sisters and brothers!

Souls will not be left and

bodies will not be alone and

souls bodies embracing Light,

these glories will always be,

and her body is 

and her body does

as a part of His:

her hope

and ours.