January 20, 2013
Coffee boils in a cup for one and four biscuits. I wonder what happened to the victims of fire outside the village. Wailing, fire trucks and smoke, last night; crying and thieving, too. The morning is silent again, and the walls, mute. It is another day to write.
Red and green, your vestments, the Sto. Nino, smiling inside the glass, like Infant Jesus of Prague , a morning bliss of calm and joy to a street of dark splintered memories of last night’s burning. Why?
‘I’m here now,” says the angel of my letters. Those barren days of nothingness and blank pages, no thoughts, no zeal; that winkle cracked! That sadness that gripped in the afternoon of a new year, culled me turning rhythmic. Read me again.
Don’t be friable like the biscuits in the coffee. Smile like a child!
O Holy Child, hear the pleas of our hearts. Let us be like you in all the troubles of our days, serene, asking the Father and believing the hope of our faith. Let us come to you in joy, in sorrow, in all the mornings of our hearts, light us with your smile, strengthen us with your spirit. Wipe away all our tears.
Most Holy Child, today, we come to your in prayer.