Sundays

A tree grows on Sunday. And we, we held so tight, arms like branches studying the ways we might merge our fear and dread into the body of the other. Staring over a bluff refusing possibility, certain what we know is better than what will come. Here on life’s weekly eve. I once saw a film about the end of the world. She forgave her father when the wave of death approached. She grasped finally, “Daddy”, she whimpered, held no greater strength, or resolve, or chances for redemption than she. How unprepared are we who’ve been shot into a world like this one? Digging our heels into this dirt, you and I embrace. Thank god for you. No one to rescue us, but we hold each other. Your tears falling on my shoulder, my shaking loosening your own leaves that so carefully and patiently emerged. “Shake” you say, and I know I’m not alone. Here, let me loosen what no longer serves. I whispered, “Take my other shoulder.” I drink your tears like a baby does milk, cheeks filling with healthy flush. How strong we are together, how deep we broke ground when we embraced. Our love stronger than our resistance. Look out there, Monday rising. Purple and orange haze, everything we fear. And yet, a depth we’ve never known. Roots found their way down to the way down, entwined with earth and bugs and ‘oh’ there you are, I wiggle my toes against your leg, burrowed too, deep and secure. Look what we found, look at our luck. Unprepared still, but, A tree grows on Sunday.