A Visit to the Attic
She sweeps the dust
from the lid of the steamer trunk
with the hem of her apron,
murmuring a fervent prayer
to the One who called her here.
A single turn of the key in the lock,
and from the sacred vessel she lifts a cloak
wrapped in skins of animals she has
never seen and cannot name;
she fingers a rusty stain.
“What does it matter,” she wonders,
“if the truth is never known?
I bear its residue in my blood and bone,
and no infernal breeze can drive it away.”
Satisfied, she wraps the cloak
within the redolent skins again,
sings an old but comforting hymn—
There is a balm in Gilead
to make the wounded whole—
and dances down the stairs.
© 2011 by Magical Mystical Teacher