We almost know her, don't we?
The lady of means, widowed,
giving her time to works of charity.
So skilled she is,
her hands provide good garments,
well made and durable,
respectful and respectable.
We can almost see her, too.
The noble brow,
the firm-lipped mouth,
the greying hair held neatly back,
the movements quite quick still,
getting on with life,
putting widowhood somewhere apart,
in the silence of the heart,
where pain must dwell,
but not be dwelt upon.
We can almost hear her too.
Practical, factual, kind;
a voice of cadences
that speak of kindnesses
and a most of all a heart aware.
Then one day she's not there.
The gap -
the silence -
the unmet need -
they must have been unbearable,
the unfilled space an aching void.
Tradition carries one,
one knows just what to do,
the helpful ritual.
Some comfort then
to wash the waxen limbs,
to comb the springy hair,
to clothe with fragrance
that which shortly starts to rot.
Some comfort, yes,
but not a lot.
So who first whispered,
who first dared to hope,
and what was said,
to birth their daring plan
to call upon the fisherman,
he of healing touch,
of whom they'd heard so much,
and what exactly did they hope?
Did they think, did they even know
that anything was possible,
and any hope permissible,
the walls of death now passable -
oh yes!
I think they did.
