Blue Lights
New Year's Day 2004
As a small boy, I saw blue
lights.
They would call me when my parents were asleep.
I knew their voice, and would greet them in the small
hours
in their home in the gold drapes, as they
flickered phosphorescent
on
that
great pane window,
a
giant oak of cat perches
and
the murmur of Lake Ronkonkoma
their
theatrical ambiance.
The blue lights went away,
along with many of the carnival moments of childhood.
I attributed their ephemeral
existence
to my mother’s
short career as a freelance
psychic.
I thought they had skidded off the ouija board or
too
many oily palms read or had been poisoned by those
musty
tea leaves or even conjured up and then dismissed by a
séance
gone awry.
Forty years later, I am sitting in a small church
meditating on the Gospel
a thunderous Pacific storm
in my ears
a
chalkboard begging for gnosis in
my
closed eyes. Then the chalkboard turns into
papyrus
burning with the same blue lights that had
left
me in our home by the lake.
I then knew that the blue lights were angels.
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