To HaRachaman, The Compassionate One
Y’all, I m just feeling pretty beat up today. I meditated on everything I’m grateful for, which is mainly, today, coffee, dark and strong, and the fruit cups and soup sainted Auntie Jan brought by, and the lima bean soup sainted Auntie Elaine brought by, and the Tong Ren she did, pounding on that rubber doll with that little hammer, and danged if I wasn’t ready to go out and paint the town Maraschino Red for a while after that, and, Y’all forgive me, the Pall Malls sainted Auntie Frov’s sainted son, Ryan, brought by–Y’all bless them special, y’hear?– but this morning everything hurts, and my eyes feel like dried-out scrambled eggs, and my throat feels like there’s a teeny-tiny tribe of native dancers in there poking teeny-tiny little surgical needles up, then down, then side to side….
About the smoking, Y’all don t start on me now. I surrendered that up into Thine Almighty Hands, don’t Y’all remember?
So I’m begging Y’all to send Bobby T, the angel of healing Y’all dispatched to me here when I was ailing back in oh-six, such a lovely young brown man with the big smile and the healing balm. I implore thee, HaRachaman, in thy mercy, not to send Tomasina, with the radiance of a fairy princess in the first soft pink ray of morning sun, and the kindness and compassion of Nurse Ratchett and Bertha the Bone-Cruncher rolled up into one sadistic Angel of Perpetual Pain.I know there’s folks out there much worse off’n me, and Y’all can send Bobby T to them soon as he gets done with me. Heal me quick, so I can get on about Y’alls work down here. Amen.
Sister Alma Rose Has the Last Word 