It's Advent, and there are more arrivals than that of sweet baby Jesus:
the train of memory drops them off, one by one, as it circles the tree-- pets and playmates, classmates and cousins, parents and neighbors, siblings and colleagues, dreams and regrets, loss and healing... all that I'd love and misplaced, back again to visit, come home, as the train comes round again, as the year turns, as the season slides silently by.
Honor the season and the season's young Prince, who comes to wrap his tiny fingers around your weary index finger.
He comes to wrap his tiny fingers-- full of trust and innocence and fragility-- around your index finger, the one with which you point, the one with which you pull the trigger, the one that pushes the buttons that run your day, that ruin the world.
He reaches for that finger, wraps that finger with his tiny fingers of trust and innocence and fragility. He wraps that finger with the potential for healing, for trust and innocence and fragility.