One-Hundred Words of Solitude

I retrace the familiar while I lie on the table in the doctor’s office each week. This room has eleven ceiling tiles: square and white.

A different doctor, a different retracing, but still familiar. Twelve ceiling tiles: rectangle and ivory.

A new room this day. Rare: finger-paintings with primary colors—palm trees, sun—atop square and white.

I study the rare.

Hundreds of doctors’ appointments. Retracing hundreds of solitudes.

But the prayers for a song in the night to come in the night, comes.

Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.

Keeping time, I retrace the chorused Hope.

Watching and waiting, I look above.