A tree glitters in the dark

Yesterday, April told me about her friend, the ICU nurse, 
who spends her days intubating COVID patients 
and watching them die.

“That’s all I do,” April’s friend said. “Now almost everyone 
intubated dies. If by some miracle, someone recovers, 
the nurses cry.”

I am wrapping Christmas presents, hanging cards 
on the mantel, planning to make cookies and granola, 
walk the block and gift the neighbors.

I will wear my mask. I won’t go inside their houses.
I will not feel sorry for myself. I will be cheerful.
I will sing I Wish You a Merry Christmas.

Sorry is for the dead, for the broken-hearted ones
who loved the dead and are now picking up the pieces,
for the nurses, doctors, medical staff, EMTs, 

ambulance drivers, dentists, teachers, firemen, policemen, 

“No one thinks about what this is doing to me,” 
April’s friend said, “day after day, I am intubating people
and watching them die.” 

As we slog toward the end of the 2nd Year of the Pandemic, 
we have forgotten how to care for the army. The army is exhausted. 
The army is calling for help.

My Christmas tree glitters in the dark, a pyramid of white light
and glittering red bulbs, erected to lighten
the weight of the dark season.

And yes, the season is dark. But we too can shine. 
We can manufacture the love that all of us
are starving for.

Ruelaine Stokes is a poet, spoken word performer and teacher. For decades, she has been working to nurture a growing poetry community in Greater Lansing Area.

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