Mark Scandrette

I see you in the smallest details of our stories– brief glimpses of hope amidst the pain and confusion of being timebound.

We could spend less of our time comparing ourselves– or regretting where we are because of the choices we’ve made.

We can spend more of our energy discerning the next immediate step
into the light of love– instead of beating ourselves up because we fail to live up to our own ideals.

Could we evaluate success in terms of our ability to stay present to the voice of love that persists in the messiness of life in the here and now?

From the Hacienda we walked
through the village of cotton wood trees
and up the hill past the church
where a few faithful gathered
under a thunderstorm New Mexico sky.

In the cemetary
we read off the names on the headstones:
Anaya. Chavez. Sandoval.
For two hundred years
These families have buried their dead
in view of the Galisteo Basin
and the Sangre De Christo mountains
Their bodies lie under ground
covered by high desert grasses,
or small fenced plots
adorned with white rocks and astro turf
and tattered bouquets of plastic flowers.

The names cut into marble
in faded script worn by the wind
or speckled with lichen
are now barely legible.
The poorer Anaya, Chavez and Sandovals
buried their people under homemade crosses
with the name of the beloved
etched in broken script
in poured wet cement.

We look up to see
the last car leave Sunday morning Mass
A new white pick up
carrying a young couple and their child
They drive past the cemetary
towards the cluster of shanty houses
with satalite TV dishes
A stray dog wanders past
and it begins to rain.