They call it stroke. Two we loved were stunned by that same blow of cudgel, or axe to the brow. Lost on the earth, they left our circle broken. One spent five months, falling from our grasp mute, her grace, wit, beauty erased. Her green eyes gazed at us, as if asking, as if aware, as if hers. One night she slipped away; machinery of mercy brought her back to die more slowly. At long last she escaped. Our collie dog fared better. A lesser creature, she had to spend only one day, drifting and reeling, her brown eyes beseeching. Then she was tenderly lifted, laid on a table, praised, petted and set free.
At least I’ve learned this much: life doesn’t have to be all poetry and roses. Life can be bus rides, gritty sidewalks, electric bills, dishwashing, chapped lips, dull stubby pencils with the erasers chewed off, cheap radios played too loud, the rank smell of stale coffee, yet still glow with the inner fire of an opal, still taste like honey.
All the babies born that Tuesday, full of grace, went home by Thursday, except for one, my tiny girl who rushed toward light too soon. All the Tuesday mothers wheeled down the corridor in glory, their arms replete with warm baby. I carried a potted plant. I came back the next day and the next, a visitor with heavy breasts, to sit and rock the little pilgrim, nourish her, nourish me.
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