I Rarely Squint These Days

I Rarely Squint These Days

I used to fall for anything, hit the ground after one light
touch
of someone’s words. I used to crawl away afterwards,
after the “amens” and “holy spirit come” faded into
cars going home.

They believed every word they said. I wanted to.
They prayed for people, they said, that felt like praying for
refrigerators. I prayed alone. Punctuated with tears, caught
in a cedar jewelry box crafted by a seventh grader. I never
wanted to
fool
anyone, except myself.

I wanted everything they had. I wanted words as clear as
stone engravings. I wanted to touch the invisible, I wanted to
taste
the indiscernible. The circuits in my brain
conspired
against me, overheating to produce the yearning for fire.

If I squinted my eyes just right, so tight that greens and reds
would appear,
or if I stared long enough into the cup of wine until
I saw some presence there,
I thought Spring had sprouted in my soul.
I can still do it today. But it never changed my heart.

I rarely squint these days or I’ll miss the butterflies dancing
behind the towering walnut tree in my back yard. I rarely
listen for
inner voices so
I do not miss the buzz of hummingbirds dancing and mating before
they land on the feeder above my head.
I find the presence in quesadillas and margaritas,
at tables where moms and new babies laugh,
where toddlers peer into the strollers in simple joy at
the tiny man on his first excursion in the world.

I find the imago dei in a friend I haven’t seen in years,
who rushes to hug me and tells me her husband is
playing in the band.

I rarely squint these days.