When we meet an ill moment with a surrendered smile, it loses some of its sting.
I bring her a cup with a prayer and she takes it up and her eyes light and nod.
And too, a little tray of beauty, a cool cloth, a few favorite things, and a bud in a vase.
Perhaps this is the art of medicine, to create loveliness in the midst so love can do certain healing, regardless.
Sickness may serve Him and serving the sick is serving Him and God squanders nothing. She asks for another sip and I hold the straw.
Stroking her hair, cooling that forehead, I finger it, the pillowcase’s edge.
The threads that stitch in and out and through everything.
That butterfly taking wing even right here…