Tuesday, September 24, 2002

�I hope you�re ready to be saved.�

A belligerent stranger once said this to me on a street corner in Northern California, not far from the hospital where I was born. He spoke the words with a straight face and a fire in his eyes that seemed all heat and no light.

My reply was a noncommittal and wide-eyed stare of surprise and bemusement. As is always the case in these situations, I have been plagued since by all the shining witticisms, stinging retorts and luminous jewels of wisdom I might have answered had I but conceived them at the time.

These are not worth recording.

His salvation did not interest me at the time and I am still not buying that particular brand. Salvation comes, for me, in small doses everyday.

The touch of your hand, my love.

The reading of a poem chipped from the heart of wonder.

The sight of sunshine in the afternoon,
carpeting the floor with golden light.

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