Climbing Jacob’s Ladder

The spiritual is caught in a spiral, a repeating rattle in my grandparents’ “squirrel cage.”

Come summer, all creatures need a little cool relief. Each visit, I nap on the floor in front of the fan. The ironed face of the pillow’s crisp cotton case is slick and cool on my cheek. The heat is an untied shock of waves tossed on the shiny blond wood floor. My ears take up the fan’s repeton. We are climbing Jacob’s ladder . . . .

Now, in the North, I groom young writers. The night walk home, the old gospel of an invisible companion, and the news that a dear friend’s Orthodox father seems to have a worn out valve all drag like a floppy sandal.

All things find their rhythm. My coat and gloves are leather. My scarf, expensive wool. My grandmother, who insisted that we buck up and find our way through, would hum to me, …soldiers of the cross.