A Christmas nightmare. A parent grieves over a son at death’s door. What hope remains when faith is dying too? Only the faintest prayer, maybe, breathed more than spoken, a prayer so fleeting that only the heavens take notice. Only the snow says amen.
by Len Bailey
How can I see you this way night after night,
Wrapped in sheets like swaddling clothes and haloed in light?
But not like the Christ child—no gold, frankincense, myrrh,
Only IVs, medications, and linens.
No ox, sheep, and donkey grumbling lowly,
Only the gasping in and out of the machine that helps you breathe.
My son, you are a handsome young man.
How can they display you like artwork in a gallery of horror,
Scarecrow face with a lopsided grin from the breathing tube that keeps you alive?
I pray, I pray, I pray.
Must you, like the Christ child, die so horribly?
I sit and hold onto your hand as if fearing to break a vow.
How could I let go, the final gesture of goodbye on this eve of your favorite day,
Of singing carols and sharing gifts, of evergreens laughing in twinkling lights
Even as your blinking machines count down to the moment of release?
The doctor slips in, tall and ebony, Nigerian I think.
He smiles broadly like many Africans do,
Checks your monitor and web of tubes and lines in the motion of playing a harp.
“You hear that song?” he asks “That is Darlene Love singing ‘Christmas’.”
I turn my ear. I can hear faintly down the hallway.
He says, “I have this 45 record in my collection. 1963. Original label, also.”
I go to reply but he’s already leaning over me.
“Do not fail your son,” he whispers. “Pray, pray, pray.”
I finally do let go, wander over and groan onto the couch.
I open the lamp table drawer . . . a Bible, but my prayer is past such things
Or maybe it’s past me, but I don’t close the drawer.
Your heart monitor blips softly like a pulsating metronome.
I breathe, I breathe, I breathe, I pray, I pray, . . .
Lights flood open.
A nurse jolts by me. Another shouts from across the bed.
The doctor arrives like a commanding tower.
I am guided away by the elbow. I look back to the bed.
My son stares off with manikin eyes, already more than gone.
From the hallway I see more nurses rushing in.
I back away . . . away, through a fire exit door into the night.
An alarm rings but no one notices.
The door closes softly like a tomb.
It is quiet out here.
Crystal flakes alight onto my cheek from the darkness.
I grip the icy railing,
Lower my head beneath a sickly moon rising on her slow course.
A distant church bell tolls midnight amidst all that is frost and final.
My son, oh my son.
I shiver. I cannot, I cannot move my hands
Yet I feel . . . what is it?—the doctor. He is beside me,
His arm, his warmth around my shoulders.
He stares into the night. If only he would speak.
He looks at me with eyes like coal but I can only breathe.
Yet his eyes twinkle, yes twinkle and smile.
His smile widens into chuckling, deep down like a bass drum.
Now he is laughing—laughing.
Tears freeze below my eyes but it feels good . . . my prayer, my prayer, my prayer.
Diamond white the snow says amen
Like angel flurries floating down
Coming round to Christmas again
Diamond white the snow says amen
Like angel flurries floating down
Len Bailey has lived in West Virginia, Kentucky, Oklahoma, Arizona, Illinois and Kansas. He enjoys baking, reading, writing and watching movies with his wife, Denise and hanging out with his three sons Danny, Bobby and Jesse.
