By Judith Miller
If I could say where I had been today, describe a room holding its breath behind drawn, faded drapes, hoarding its hope against the cruel demands of light. If I could name the pleasantries punctiliously observed, old glasses (like we all had, growing up) with perfect ice cubes melting quietly in each, two soda bottles and a lemonade container ranged across the table, quotidian barricade against despair, or too much sentiment. If I could map the alien terrain where a TV is always on, and someone is dying, where conversation runs to miracles, the small indignities of bodily betrayal, events that happened months ago back at the office. If I could choreograph that movement to the icebox for fresh ice, the slow, deliberate tread from here to there to here again, a journey undertaken for the sake of grace, of friendship, and of being, still, alive.
©2008 Judith Miller