Prayer

In the cool blue room, the black metal table is draped with a white sheet.  I lie on my back while my head is locked into a white mask, anchored to the table.

Eyes closed, my face is still as a stone under the whine of the killing/healing machine.  I slowly recite the words of a prayer I learned by heart half a century ago.  I gloss over the "thy will be done" part, as I have my own plan in mind.

Are you there God?  It's me, Margaret.

For 60 years, you have given me a garden with sweet green pears hanging low on leafy branches.  Wild birds sing at dawn, and fireflies flicker at twilight.  Endless blue skies, clear water, and fertile soil weave a web of family love extending four generations. 

But for me, it is not enough.  I lie alone in the cool blue room and ask for more.

At home in the garden, the plumleaf azalea bloomed for the first time in July.

A dozen bees worked the summersweet clethra.

And the rare hosta, "Nutty Professor," grew delicate white flowers.

You are in the garden, in sunlight and shadow, in damp and dry spaces. Your face is etched into the rough crevasses of the oaks. Your scent lingers on the phlox. Your voice echoes within every creature, great and small.

Prayers are not recited in the garden.  There is only the wordless language of the heart.