Grandma smiles at her. "The light has not departed from you. Never turn from the knowledge of it, little piece of my heart."
"Oh, let me come to you."
"If you were to come to me, a sliver of light would be absent from the earth. You are sent down into the cold dark world to bring it light, though you are but a reflection. In many times and many places you will not see the light that you bring, for it is hidden from your eyes so that others may receive it."
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you"
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don't die," we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don't want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat," “Go ahead — you first," “I like your hat."