A cardboard sign

What if the body is always on the way to resolution?  What if there really is order at the base of things, barely discernible, under the currents and we aren’t just making up laws to suit our puny human take on things. Or to assuage our trembling fears, that it is, indeed, all for naught? Is this part of the appeal of Christmas?  Of religion in general?

There is a story, onto which we can graft our own sensibilities.  A raft in these tumultuous seas, that calls to us.  A beacon, a star, something true, no matter what disorder washes our way.

I opened the door this early morning, in the dark, to place Coleman’s breakfast on the porch, where he has the least number of steps to the yard afterwards.  My breath froze.  Immediately  I thought of the man who stands at the corner on our way to the Interstate with his cardboard sign.  Ironically, he stands at the edge of a cemetery and behind that a church, and yet no one takes him in, neither cemetery nor church, and we have joked in our nervousness at seeing him day after day that he needs help with his marketing strategy, as the corner he has chosen is one where it is impossible for cars to stop.  Where is he on this frozen night.  I closed the lids on my cold frames to protect the lettuces.  Where is he? I handed him no money, no jacket even though we have a closet of extras.  And it is Christmas.

We will travel across the mountain today, Eamon, John and I will get in our car full of gasoline with the heated seats and we will take with us a big basket of presents:  lotions from a local salon  whose owners pledge sustainability and who serve on the board of the battered women’s shelter; indulgences for my diabetic mother that we’ve been baking for days:  brownies, blondies, cherry brioche, chocolate chocolate cherry scones.  I have cut everything in small pieces to help slow down the sugar rush, and I will tell the nurse that my mother has these.

I don’t want to go, frankly, but I will, and we won’t stay long even though the drive is four hours give or take.  We won’t stay long because it is too hard, and because we will have house guests that will arrive before we get back.  I say it is too hard and then I think of the  man on the corner and I have to say I don’t know what hard is.  My worries this Christmas are getting clean sheets on the beds before people need to sleep on them and embarrassment that I only got lights on the tree and I’ve run out of time.

It always feels as though I am running out of time, that we are running out of time.