Homily

I don't know how to pray.
I don't know how to.
How can I when I disbelieve
in the existence of an unproven entity?

It has done nothing for me.
Maybe that was its intention.
If it exists, of course.

But I do know my heart,
and my heart longs to see your eyes
open like windows welcoming light.

My ears long to listen to your mutter,
your slight "hurrumph"
when you hear something ridiculous,
when you maul over something profound.

I just want you to wake up.

Not curled up like this,
swaddled in a blue paper gown,
barely breathing from a lonely tube.
Lights flicker and dip around you,
trapping you in their benevolent net.

Break out of it, break out of it.
Even in your stupor your stubborn chin
trembles in defiance, moves as though to speak.

I just want you to wake up.

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Third time in the ICU, each as unpleasant as the last, just as painful, just as wrenching.

I want you to be ok. We were supposed to go against the grain together, weren't we? You'll conquer the photography world; I'd do whatever necessary to ensure we could eventually pursue our passions as productive, non-starving artists.

Wake up. For a moment, when I stepped into the ward, you gurgled, and your eyes fluttered beneath the lids. Hope backed up against the throat. I thought you were going to wake up, and say soemthing totally outrageous, like "boo".

Of course, you didn't.

Won't you please wake up? Just please, please wake up.