New Year’s Eve-- and auld lang syne
Planted like Blessed Thistle in a dry place, swollen leg/trunks mired in dank attics of the past. Whittled arm/branches stretched toward an overcast future, seeking refuge within the solitary confessional called working the night shift.
Rooted in a plastic seat on the Metra train, the trusses of life quivering, our commuter car creeps gingerly across slick trestles. Overhead the sizzle and snap of electric wires coated in icy layers.
Suspended like a dangling gondola above the bleak terrain, subzero sky so black, it feels like flying through an opaque funnelform. And then comes the vigil light, as we pass before a deserted mill: Inland Steel, a looming icon of vanquished blue-collar culture.
Glistening from the zenith of a slanted alloy roof, like the Star of Bethlehem, a single decoration placed annually by forgotten magi. Those former laborers whose sweat, toil, and brawn fed their families and the insatiable blast furnaces on the casting-floor to pound American pride.
Choked up, thoughts falling like snowflakes upon mindscapes, I swallow the star and relive the day the plant closed. That moment, when mama’s eyes went numb with purplish-red pain that screamed an alarm as primal and piercing as any warning whistle.
When overturned Mason jars spread out penny wishes on gingham print oilcloth tabletops: copper mined like gold. When grocery coupons, cut out instead of paper dolls, were strung together like lampions at birthday parties. When long lines led to day old bread and crusts of hope dropped by consoling neighbors.
Mama’s directive, from that watershed moment, became my center, the mantra that brought me home. No matter how dark the day or uncertain the way, even when the world’s anvil shapes your soul to fit its image, follow the stars within. Within, the stars follow and sing Alleluia always, without ceasing, Alleluia sing.
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