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Who knows how often I hugged loneliness to me like a prodigal daughter, how often I have draped the shawl of grief around my shoulders, how many nights I tossed and turned alone on the edge of understanding and not caught a glimmer in the moonlight of my own holy face? Feast on memories of loved ones around the table dipping bread into oil, drinking wine, toasts and laughter. Feast on songs that carried my bones into dancing, feast on the unbroken web that is between us, irridescent. Who knows that I struggle with the shadow within, claimed finally after allowing others to be the mirror image? Who knows that I now have asked for the blessing, no matter the limp from the broken thigh? Feast on the light, enkindled by words, by touch, by love, by willingness, holding the lantern to the sky no matter how fierce the wind.