A Small Perfect Day
It is the way their fingers entwined—
before their hands vowed to one another.
It is the way they looked at each other—
smiles on their faces,
knowing glints in their eyes.
I surmised their story.
I felt their love.
It is rare—
love that is reverent, eternal.
My day started at Urgent Care, then onward to the ER. I didn’t believe anything was serious; nevertheless, I gathered my laptop, phone, and chargers. Glancing at Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, I tucked it into my carry-all.
An older woman, short and round, sat at the registry. I was next. A tall man, the woman’s age, with a soft European accent, excused himself, tipped his hat before stepping in front of me.
I was settled into an old recliner chair—still operational. No beds available. I fussed with my laptop, but decided to read instead. The sound of laughter—from the patient, doctors, and nurses at the other end of the hallway caught my attention.
The short, round woman was surrounded by hospital staff. I watched but heard little, just laughter. Rilke’s Letters beckoned, so I tuned out to everything. They took the woman’s blood, then mine. And standard drills in ER life unfolded as we waited.
More laughter. These were genuinely happy people. I was wheeled past the couple, and she reached out to touch my arm, smiling, almost chuckling, saying, “It will all be well. God bless you.” I thanked her and nodded to her husband.
The laughter was infectious, for I had fun with two cool tech guys—I’m a veteran C-scan and MRI patient. Paul, the senior tech, gave me the required spiel at the end, stating he couldn’t tell me anything except that my images were wonderful; in fact, they were perfect.
I knew the outcome.
They rolled me past the couple, her head on his shoulder, holding hands again. Calm. Smiling. Peaceful.
Theirs could be a sixty or seventy-year marriage. Trials, sorrows, many celebrations, too. Maybe children, or not. They were devoted. Not clinging, but respect, honor, and joy, not only with one another, but with everyone around them.
She was discharged before me and stopped at my chair, smiling. I smiled. It was impossible not to join the joy. Her husband said, “Rilke! One of my favorites.” Then I placed the accent—German. She was American. I asked if they were both well.
She laughed and told the story of how she broke her nose—oh, so many tests and scans for her brain and eyes. She collided with a door, which was always there. Smiling, she said, “I think this door wanted to get to know me better.”
They asked about me. I am well. Nothing is wrong. The gentleman took my hands and said, “You glow, my dear, you read Rilke, we are all well, is this not a perfect day?”
I heard the hush within me—the hours of waiting dissolved. We laughed again, wishing each other, May God bless you.
They walked away, fingers wrapped, hands clasped. Love, light, joy—walking down an ER hallway.
Oh, don’t leave.
I want to understand—
How do you laugh and rejoice in today’s world?
How have you loved for so long, so deeply?
Certain memories stay.
This is one of them.
I felt touched by angels.
Ah, but I’m a hopeless romantic, so I lean a little that way.
Perhaps more than I allow myself to believe.
Photograph: Lee Anne Morgan
Title: “Persephone’s Tears”
Edition: No. 1/5
Copyright: 2001