How Hope Enters the World

Snow falls all night and into the morning. I'm going to die soon. It feels like a competition, who can outlive who. Why did so much in this life have to be so hard? Listening to Chrisoula breathe while the light changes. She shifts, pulls the blanket closer, her leg grazes mine: this is how hope enters the world. Murmuring hosannas, forgetting the words. In the end all that's left to let go of is the idea that letting go is valuable. The flakes drifting, not driven. Hemlocks stirring in slight breezes like whispering in church. Will it hurt? Be traumatic? I remember deer in glades in the forest, trout suspended in the glassy pools of Bronson Brook. I remember my father's exasperation with me hunting and how seductive my mother could be when it was only the two of us. Even Advent will be gone. Even Christ. What is the world when you are no longer in it? Remember confessing and the puzzling absence of absolution after? Snow through afternoon, deep into the night. The heart refuses all caskets, what else is living for. Holding open the book a little longer, grateful and happy, in a way that like dying is not at all mysterious.