Resurrection

Exhausted hands rest on my temples

as I sit in a sterile waiting room among countless

wooden doors, beige walls, and stiff chairs,

upholstered in worn vinyl the color of

cough syrup.

For days I could see him only

through a translucent window

that never opens.

Scatters of ivory blossoms,

undoubtedly ordered from

a catalogue of arrangements, profess

“Eternal Affection” and “Peaceful Passage,”

earthly tokens of condolence

surrounding me as I wait.

Doctors barter morsels of

medical advice, congesting the frigid halls

and freezing my barren thoughts.

I only want one doctor.

He only needs one doctor.

Four days pass,

but on His arrival,

I know no impatience.

He is my Father’s son

and my brother will rise again.

Upon His command, my brother’s body

is stripped of winding entanglements,

of plastic tubes and colored wires.

His eyes flutter open,

and slowly I rise,

knowing only

He could open the closed door

of mortality

Kourtney Kinchen