Sean Rima: A Poem For Stephen Willeford.

 

 

Brother Willeford.

We had been in
the waiting area
of the Transplant Ward
at University for eleven
hours, some of us were
snoozing, some of us
watched TV or were
snacking or
sharing

quiet conversations,

and our muscles were
tired and our hearts
were heavy, and
and I had long
since run

out of words

for God

as the dawn
rose through the

plate glass windows,
and the people in the
scrubs began
to come
and go, just
another day at
the office for
them, the night
shift yawning and
shuffling towards
the elevators,
and it was
here,

around 7 a.m.,

that he showed up,

his eyes twinkling behind
his thick glasses and his
beard white like

Christmas morning,

and he put his hand
on my shoulder,
and he said a

prayer for us,

and as the tears and
hours slipped down my
whiskered cheeks,

I steadied myself by

holding onto him,

and when he had
finished, he hugged me,
and asked if we needed
anything, I said no, and
after making me
promise that I
would have a
few beers with
him and his friends
some Saturday night
in Sutherland Springs,

he smiled, and joined
the night shift on
the elevators,

and as I watched
him go, somewhere,
inside myself, I knew–

as truly as I know
the sky is blue
and Springtime
follows the Winter–

that everything was

going to be just fine.

And that is

Brother Willeford.

Ever, the hero.

 

___

Copyright 2018 by Sean Rima.

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