Hands of Light

There’s a delicate balance we walk sometimes when we are writing — the balance of leaning just enough on cliche. This seems to come up strongly in moments of extremis. There are reasons why things appear over and over again in our language, and often the reason is because the metaphor is so apt that it can’t be improved. Today’s draft is a lean into one (or several) of those metaphors.

I am not the type to talk to doctors not my own,

to ask, clearly; demand, gently.

I rehearsed the whole drive in, as the sun rose over Lake Michigan,

the scalpel-crescent moon unobscured.

I resolved even as we spoke to researcher, nurse, anesthetist.

Finally, the last visit before the surgery, he came.

When the surgeon shifted to his other foot,

in the space between “Thank you” and the walk away,

I made my request.

“Would you mind —

Could I —

May I bless your hands?”

He held his hands to me as if he knew it all along.

Cold, I thought, for a surgeon’s hands,

cold and yet full of comfort.

I willed my warmth into his skin,

joined breath and hands and light with Love that held us all.

I released him, light-immersed,

knowing it would all be well.