Little Light

I want to say how beautiful the flowers were. How uplifting the deacon's words were. How much comfort and reassurance there is in prayer, and down as people can be on the ritualism of Catholicism, there is comfort in a highly ritualistic prayer like the rosary, because of the strength of community, the sense of family even beyond blood.

I want to talk about how the deacon pointed out that Luke or Lucas means light, and how in the twelve days he was with us, little Luke became a light to us, in his fight and in our loss. To me it has no more meaning than what we give it, but the meaning we give it can be a light to guide us as long as we live.

I want to talk about how it seems significant to me that he lived twelve days and that the Epiphany was on the twelfth day of Jesus' life. I don't know the significance, but it strikes me.

I want to talk about... about Baby Luke himself. How... how beautiful he was laying there, swathed in soft white cloths, without tubes, without machines. He was so tiny, his hands only an inch across. But... weak and undeveloped as he was, he was perfect. A tiny perfect human being who could have been so many things. Who can be so many things still, if only we let him.

I want to bring all of these things forward, and weave from them some fabric to warm me and shield me from this sort of pain. I can think of them, but I can't... I can't really feel them yet.

All I can feel is that...
Damn it, they shouldn't have to make caskets that small.