Full weekend: Funeral for a friend; rides with Care in Poolesville, Ave at Schaeffer, many laps at Hains; Skype with Nate; 24th Anniversary dinner at Blue Ridge (extraordinary! -- thanks, Eli) ... Lovely weather ...
Ode, written 12.26.2002, ever more true. Happy Anniversary, Care!
Angel Time
Is real time.
Waking, she stretches, bends low, showers -- warm
water, soap over her gentle breasts, long legs. Dry
towel, clothes, coffee, yogurt. Early, very early,
she goes off, mind set, clear in her mission, caring
for my health, humanity's health, touching crystals
deep in the mountain, invisible to all but a few
modest priests of this new science.
In her laboratory, she scans gels run overnight,
tabulates bars marking amino acids, sets the course
for her staff (diverse like exotic flowers). On to her
desk, cased by paper stacks, a sunny corner, she scans
email. Emergency! A young boy has leukemia; second
case. Gene therapy has stopped. What to do? She
carries this pain, silent and secret.
A new mission unfolds. Children, born with broken genes,
unimmune to even simple colds, die very young. The new
treatment, gene therapy, bolsters the system and gives
these wee souls a new, normal life. Then came leukemia,
white cells out of control. Two of fifteen, what to do?
Politicos will call, "Gene therapy must end." Pulpits
may rage; the French march. Should fifteen have died?
Alive by a slender thread, their fate of early death
passed over, what will be their future? What is the mark
of science? Think, check, analyze. Do no harm.
Silently she comes home, stirs dinner, guides her two
boys through homework. Dad comes in, a normal day
casting software, done. We supper, touch on publishable
events, negotiate our family agenda. The kids are
released to games, we settle in bed, under a down
comforter. I turn and touch the belly of an angel.
"How was your day?" I ask. Only she sleeps, deep in
her only time.
Ode, written 12.26.2002, ever more true. Happy Anniversary, Care!
Angel Time
Is real time.
Waking, she stretches, bends low, showers -- warm
water, soap over her gentle breasts, long legs. Dry
towel, clothes, coffee, yogurt. Early, very early,
she goes off, mind set, clear in her mission, caring
for my health, humanity's health, touching crystals
deep in the mountain, invisible to all but a few
modest priests of this new science.
In her laboratory, she scans gels run overnight,
tabulates bars marking amino acids, sets the course
for her staff (diverse like exotic flowers). On to her
desk, cased by paper stacks, a sunny corner, she scans
email. Emergency! A young boy has leukemia; second
case. Gene therapy has stopped. What to do? She
carries this pain, silent and secret.
A new mission unfolds. Children, born with broken genes,
unimmune to even simple colds, die very young. The new
treatment, gene therapy, bolsters the system and gives
these wee souls a new, normal life. Then came leukemia,
white cells out of control. Two of fifteen, what to do?
Politicos will call, "Gene therapy must end." Pulpits
may rage; the French march. Should fifteen have died?
Alive by a slender thread, their fate of early death
passed over, what will be their future? What is the mark
of science? Think, check, analyze. Do no harm.
Silently she comes home, stirs dinner, guides her two
boys through homework. Dad comes in, a normal day
casting software, done. We supper, touch on publishable
events, negotiate our family agenda. The kids are
released to games, we settle in bed, under a down
comforter. I turn and touch the belly of an angel.
"How was your day?" I ask. Only she sleeps, deep in
her only time.
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