All night in dreams I realize that I have not yet met Christ save intellectually and psychologically and must but how. Chrisoula touches my shoulder, we argue a little, fall silent, and sleep. Slowly mountains appear, slowly the hemlocks, slowly a world of grief. The last of the garden harvest studded with dirt, geese uttering their low reminder of winter. What is left? Cats lick condensation off the bedroom window, Jeremiah mutters to himself going up the hall, and a sense one has that the real work has only just begun begins. Julie Andrews in Peter Pan, later singing Christmas Carols, much like Johnny Matthis a symbol of elegance that my mother - like her mother before her - coveted. Me too indeed. We are little cygnets in a snow storm, we are parentless and adrift. Is love for anything else? I was promised hardship, I was promised suffering and somebody somewhere delivered. Now what?
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