Light

When I was a child light shone 
angels through my fingers
crowning my parents’ faces,
blessing the simple tasks of theirs: 
table setting, pouring water—
how it lit the world in my upturned smile
and flowed through as I grew
and how it followed me home
and stayed, even in the dark.

Light was the water, earth,
reflecting off every animal, 
every street, everything I touched—
the light always ahead, 
the darkness, just softly behind
 —doubts, questions, thoughts—
light, enlightening the dark words 
of my mind and mouth.

And when the darkness caught up,   
and I watched my parents fall behind,
my body/smile down-turn to groan
and my thoughts and words 
turn to memories— I realized how
the past was always near and how 
grief turned everything to light.