Just yesterday, in the very early hours
of Great and Holy Pascha, I savored
the resurrection of our murdered God.
I sang Χριστός Ανέστη with all my heart
at least a dozen times, and shouted Truly
He Is Risen in a good half dozen languages.
Arriving home at 3:00am, we broke our fast
by cracking open our several scarlet eggs.
-
Waking late that same morning, I prepared
our customary feast—lamb on the soúvla,
spanakópita, the lemony Greek spuds,
the horiátiki saláta, tsatsíki, all
such goodnesses for the family gathered
to feast, to drink the wine, to kiss one another
with eyes glistening, our hearts in our throats.
The same as every blesséd year. Thank God.
-
Today, I have an early appointment allowing
my doctor to chisel yet another aperture
into my hip in his eagerness to confirm
that the chemotherapy has done its work,
that I am, however briefly, on the mend.
May it be blessed, as we say. May the earth’s
resurrection extend its life-giving agency
to my body one more time. May my dear
belovéds find this season to be as sweet
as every other. May the world’s restoration
extend to everything that breathes. Amin.
Blessings to you, and prayers for all healing. Christ is Risen!
Ralph and I were just talking about this poem a few minutes ago, my friend, and how happy it makes both of us—-and you. Sending love!