Sister Sorrow
By Rachel Landrum Crumble
Perhaps it is the full moon shining high above March rain clouds
or the quiet—like restored sanity—
reclaiming the house
Or maybe it's the refrigerator's calm hum like a grocery cash register, adding digits of individual human suffering, unable to reach a grand total, and the seething narrowing eyes from the checkout line;
Maybe it's the pure light of my daughter's innocent dreams dividing the darkness or the even breaths of my son as he rides the purple dolphins of his dreams or maybe it's the methodical snoring of my husband, determined even in sleep...
Maybe it's my own pain that shimmers like wind- chimes in the rising storm, the rising breath of sorrow. But Sister Sorrow calls my name from sleep, sets the table, lights a candle.
Aside from sleep, I had no plans, and, yes, I can stay for supper.
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