There’s a lone orange glow coming from the back window.
Rays like a weakened sun, coming through the frosted panes.
Lonely, aching light straining to illuminate, fighting against the night.
My restless spirit keeps knocking books off shelves, rattles the screens,
making my heart race against itself in a search for clarity.
I am thinking of you now, more than I have in the recent months.
Wide-eyed and hoping, full of designs on what the future could be.
Yet, you always carried the past with you like Rodrigo Mendoza’s armour
and it took your breath away over and over with each labourious step.
So often you were that orange light glowing, comforting and encouraging,
almost brilliant against the darkness around you.
When you finally stepped forward and accepted that you were forever new,
we had no idea that one day the steps you took were to Kasese and back.
Your arms were wider and more open than anyone’s ever could.
But, at times your light was so muted by the baggage that you would never leave behind
that I always wanted more for you, just so you could receive that joy.
Maybe then you would understand that you had no need for the daily reminder
of being less than white and bright, pure and needing no restitution, no penance.
Here in the wee hours where the shadows dance, I wrestle with that myself
The sun will rise tomorrow, and so did our salvation so many years ago.
But, there is a heaviness that robs me of my full-throated breath
just like your enfeebled steps serving to keep you from singing and dancing
at the thought of the rich blessings coming in Easter’s morning sun.
I so often am overcome with the understanding I have of the isolation
and such agonising vulnerability in the face of being stripped bare and left bleeding.
It reminds me that you had so much missing from your joy.
You never really could burn as brightly as your heart wanted.
You never got to throw back your head and let your soul unwind…
until you gave up the ghost, and it was given back to you freely.
I want to learn that lesson, so hard to win before I meet you there.
To not identify with the weight and suffering in Friday’s sacrifice
from the merciful and tragic tree in skull’s hill’s passion play
without accepting the grace of redemption in Sunday’s surprise
from the transformation left behind the stone rolled away.
2:53 am
8 April 2012
