It’s old and turning a little yellow—and filled with names.
And names scratched out.
But I see beyond the names and the scratched-outness...
I see a face, many faces.
They go back a long way.
Some are family members.
Some are friends from across the years.
Some are just people
I saw in a photograph somewhere.
I keep coming back to the list.
It is loaded with pain and hurt.
That list is weighty with the burdens of life.
The scratch marks remind me of all those who
slipped away into the mystery.
There are folk there that never finished their business—
And now it is too late. Maybe not.
There is old age which wanders
across that page back and front—
Alzheimer’s, ALS, bankruptcies, divorces,
worries, worries, worries.
There are the names of people who lost someone
And feel lost them.
Parents who buried their children much too young.
Young men and women in their prime
Beside every name today—even the scratched-out
I whisper one word: Easter.
Locked away mindless in some nursing home: Easter.
Beginning marriage yet again—some for the third time: Easter.
Trying desperately to stay sober or clean: Easter.
Hoping for a cure: Easter.
And for everybody out there and me, too—
Easter. It’s the best prayer I know.
--Roger Lovette/ rogerlovette.blogspot.com