Page 27 - WTP Vol. VII #1
P. 27

In Memory of Dick Allen
Birth is a beginning, my Buddhist friend says. Even opening a cereal box at dawn
is a beginning, the way the separate grains meld into something new, milk drizzled
from a pitcher, blackberries on a silver spoon. And every breath seems new, he says,
sacred as the morning prayers of the devout. On my ward today, two patients died . . . .
Death is also a beginning, my friend says. It’s like closing out the lights at night to summon sleep―
the possibilities are endless: constellations, a new moon easing into sight.
Listen, he says, and I hear their voices singing.

   25   26   27   28   29