The Apparition of Communion

I took my mother to the hospital yesterday for a short procedure which prefaces a major one next week.  As we sat waiting, we talked of the power of women and the presence of angels and the apparition of the Virgin Mary. We felt hope together, the kind that comes with the unraveling of the meaning of life-- knowing some things should be left to faith and others should be pursued with passion.   
 

The Apparition of Communion

In the white and silver hospital room,
women- one sitting, one lying, both under
the two arms of the crucifix. Together they gaze
at the wood holding a metal human frame.

The women hold hands like rosaries, one hand tarnished from a
mountain of oiled worry, a precarious existence for beads.
The other meditates on the
mysteries of medicine and prayer and their meaning.

Thunder hangs low in the square room. No windowed sky-- anxiety glows a hole
through the unknown demands of a pale blue fabric wall.
The council of war decides on the other side--
nuns on knees, shoulders touching, pray continuously, no eyes necessary.

Physical and spiritual graces arrive with Angel wings, a feather’s weight
of devotion, laughter erupts from some concealed
dense core in the land of aged flesh; the soul releases faith.
“I cannot have hope.” The patient says.

“I will have hope for you.”
A river of tears cascade over the illumination of burden,
and freedom follows in the church of their hearts.
They cry until they laugh and freedom follows in their hearts.