Remembering Anthony--
I see the orange color. Bold, audacious, bright. The mesmeric mixture of red and yellow,
passion and tenderness--I see my grandson, Anthony: it was his color.
I see the day of his birth, a bright sunny Sunday twenty-seven years ago. Cool, kicking up a storm,
as if he already knew his time on earth would be limited.
Perfect fingers, perfect toes.
I see each day the one hundred orange balloons that flew to the sky
in the day of his entombment.
I see the one that stayed behind--the balloon that became enlaced in the branches of a tree,
ight in front of our eyes. Oh, that sweet chalice of vision.
The blessed balloon stayed up there for a while, dancing with the wind, blending with the sky.
The nurturing branches softy swaying, as if in a lullaby.
I see how, with miraculous gentleness, each one of the tree leaves opened softly, like rose petals in summer; in an easy twirl, Anthony flew into the sky. He already had run a decathlon and climbed mountains in life.
I see this miracle as his goodbye. Bright, teasing, laughing...as he was in life.
I see the days with dark slashes on the road. Those are the days when I don't see a reason, or atonement, or light. Those are the days when I question and unravel before the Almighty God.
I also see my long narrow road under the solace of the orange color.
Those days with a twist of brightness are the days when his sunny presence
graces me.
= = = = = = = = = = =
|
Author Notes
Twenty-eight stars at the bottom, for each year of my grandson's life.
|
|
