Julian Diaz Brown

It'd been a long time,
long enough for her to deem it ironic
when the numbers of his home telephone
came popping up in her head while she drove east
to visit her sick mother.

It'd been a long time,
long enough for both of them to move away:
move to places like Berkeley and Los Angeles,
move to places like North Carolina and Chicago,
move to places that kept them distant--places
like resentment and misunderstanding.

He frequents the scenes of Hollywood, polishing production
and brushing shoulders with large egos and egos trying to grow.
She frequents the halls of hospitals and parishes, touching pain
and pushing prayer while questioning the validity of it all.

It'd been a long time, long enough for them
to lose contact, lose interest, even to lose memory.
So when his phone number popped back into her mind,
along with an idea to return where they'd always gone on Christmas Eve,
she figured in a time when uncertainty reigns and fear abounds,
why not return to rituals of old?

She could see it: driving to 375 E. Julliard Dr to pick him up,
where his family would be winding down from seasonally appropriate
festivities. He'd be wearing a sweater and jeans, moving quickly
with a rapid hug that seemed desperate and rushed. She'd drive
them downtown where C&E Christians, mostly white upper class
locals with returned college students in-tow, would be posted
outside the historic Church listening to the Claremont Brass Band
play "Noel" and "Hark the Herald." Too cold to linger, they'd move
inside to behold the poinsettias and liturgical banners suggesting
subtle worship in winter. Hushed solitude would fill the air.
The service would begin and unfold while he doodled comic strips
on the bulletin and made irreverent, yet honest, remarks about the service.
She would sing and read from the Bible, taking particular note
when all congregants raised their candles in the air
to mark the apex of advent: yes, we will wait one more night
for this miracle to be born. When the gay baritone,
a companion of her late father, hit the crescendo of "O Holy Night,"
year after year a friendship christened when he reached across the pew,
touching her hand, making spirit-in-flesh move beyond myth.

It'd been a long time.
Too long. No answer of the phone.
No cellular number to supplement.
He stopped calling on the anniversary of her father's
death. She quit trying to break through his silence,
quit trying to reach into the comfort places he once provided.
It'd been a long time, long enough for them to move away.

When her mother returned from the
4th surgery in 14 days, pale and pain-stricken at
10:00 p.m. in a ghost town hospital, the girl looked at the
clock, knowing the Midnight Candlelight Service began shortly,
thought of him briefly, thought of him lovingly,
and even though it'd been long enough for them to move away,
the girl called on his compassion, buried her head in her mother's cheek
and hummed "O Holy Night" attempting to move spirit-in-flesh beyond myth.