Mary's Tears

This thread, this ungraspable strand.

At 4 a.m. sleep finally wins. For the first time in weeks, I have missed the birds' call to prayer. But the Lily of the Valley buds are beginning to emerge and stack. We moved into this house in the middle of winter, so when spring rolled around and the Lily of the Valley began to push through, it was a sheer delight. A surprise.

Growing up on Gun Lake there was a tiny white cottage a few lots down from our house. The occupants didn't move in for the summer until June or July, leaving the place begging for childhood exploration the other 9 months of the year. My favorite part about this cottage was the fact that it was surrounded by thousands of Lily of the Valley flowers for a short time each spring. I used to visit the cottage daily to record the progress of the pips and their final blooming days. Later I would find out they can be deadly poisonous, but oh, that sweet, intoxicating scent! Christian lore says that these flowers sprang from the tears of Mary upon her son's crucifixion. I remember pondering as a child how this flower seems to weep. Those delicate white, ruffled bells – those fairy skirts dancing in lake breezes! They are almost here now and I cannot wait to greet them.

A turbid conversation roils and swims but some sediment seems to settle near the end. Is it the end? I have so much to give yet I don't know how to give it.

Folding sheets – walking dogs – tending things that grow.

May I? Let us. Please? Unravel, untangle, undress. Push a little, pull. Swim and float. Stargaze, dig deep, shoot for the horizon. Bend but do not break. Tilt, slide, tell it slant. Accept, forfeit, let it land. Because it will land, beloved. Let us bring it down gently, in a field of wildflowers or the carpeted floor of the pine forest or that cabin; you know the one.

Here I unspool – let out the line – am carried downstream. It's the best I can do right now. The most. The way.