There was stillness in the room,
and predawn darkness.
The bottom of the curtains
brushed the sill with quietness.
I remembered what you said to me—
when fear had entered in.
I remembered it again and again,
and I remembered it then.
You had come into my room
when your chores were done
and had read aloud deep truths.
I felt a comfort, an ease.
You aired the room, then smiled and turned to go.
And at the door,
you stopped a moment,
just before
joy made you speak—
"You are the celebration of Life."
Then you were gone.
That penetrating truth could not/would not leave me,
"...the celebration of Life, Life's celebration."
Later, I stood,
and walked to the window—
Life's celebration was bursting
unconfined/everywhere/unrestricted,
every place/space/second,
gloriously rejoicing/rushing forth jubilee.
That very afternoon,
running to catch my homebound train,
I realized I didn't even know your name—
but your Christliness had been
seen/felt,
your light had
shone/upheld.
And in that shining
celebration came.
