[My answer is a haiku]

To view such Glory

I'm Astounded to silence

I would just Listen.

Is there a place in the universe where your vision of life has met with greater success than on Earth?

Is it a place where one need never fear others? Where all can live in peace? Where violence of any sort has no place?

Is it a place where hatred, greed, envy, anger, jealousy no longer exist?

Is illness, physical and mental, eradicated?

Do love and kindness abound?

When was the last time you gazed upon your creation? Did you give up long ago or do you still hope?

Do you see Earth as a success? Why or why not?

We need to talk about a lot of things, starting with the afterlife and what philosophical concept-- if any-- decides Heaven or Hell. Is it a Heaven or Hell system at all? Is there reincarnation on the table, how do you judge the actions of the world at large or of individuals? How have you not been tempted to repeat Noah's Arc? Do angels come down to Earth? Do angels evolve and do you evolve with them if they ever experience human life?

______________________________

Keep in mind, I don't think I'd get time to ask even all those questions.

Moments after being placed on my chest, my son scrunched his blue-tinged face, whimpered and began to cry in earnest.

Leaning over us, my husband spoke with him as he had spoken to my belly for nine months. He stopped crying and appeared to listen.

"He knows your voice," I whispered, smiling, eyes full.

"By the way," Dr. Blunt said, "your husband and your mom didn't know how to tell you, but your father died two days ago."

And thus was my full heart broken, bleeding sorrow that still seeps out now and again, even as it burst with joy.

We stared in amazement at what this find may mean for us.

"It's here for the taking," Brother shrugged, "gimme a boost."

He landed in the dumpster with a thud.

I checked the school parking lot: empty due to Christmas break.

He pushed and I pulled. Success!

Ecstatic, we pulled our treasure away. In small puffs, our breath took wing upon the shimmering winter air. Giddy with hope, we hardly felt the cold by then.

We arrived at the door of our

impoverished home, filled with childish certainty: Santa would remember us this year.

This year we had a tree.

Every night down in the street i heard him open bin lids sorting through rubbish for tin cans, i hadn't seen but i just knew it, on dark almost every night.

bang, bang, bang

At the time i didn't have much money as i waited to start university living above a Thai restaurant in the city.

I had saved up a bag of coins, dollars, twenties, fifties for emergencies, and i had resolved to give this to the man who i called tin can man.

One night i heard him at the bins, shuffling, banging and rushed down the wooden steps through the restaurant out to the street below.

What i saw was a little bent over old man, intent on the bin he was looking in not noticing me at all.

I walked up to him with the bag in hand and said, 'Hey mate, i have something for you'. He had turned quickly, flinching at the same time, expecting an attack.

'I have these coins for you please take them', i had said quietly. He looked at me for a moment then took the bag, not saying a thing.

Then i went back to my room, and he to his life on the streets, but at least i helped if only a little bit.

Today I commented

On a social media post.

Then I visited a mall,

On Facebook I did boast.

When I sit at my table

For Thanksgiving leftovers

I can’t shake the image

Of a man who didn’t smell sober.

I saw him outside the mall,

Cradling a cardboard sign

that said, “Will work for food.”

I walk by as if to him I am blind.

Now, my fork touches the potatoes

As the man’s words rattle in my brain.

He said, “I’m hungry. Can you help?”

I rationalized, he just wants cocaine.

After dinner, I check my phone

To see if my post has a like,

But a comment says I’m a mall rat

Who’s rich. What a stereotype!

How dare someone say I’m wealthy

When I am just comfortable.

My mind replays the man’s words

And I fear I too have pinned a label.

But what can I possibly do

To ease the plight of the hungry?

Perhaps I can start by seeing

That I am starved for empathy.

If you’ve just begun dating that special someone and you’d like to see how your honey reacts under extreme pressure, invite her or him to an intimate dinner. At your house. Seated at a small table with just you and your parents. And, in this case, my seven brothers.

Besides, I felt it was only right to invite Karen to dinner at my family's small wood house, because I’d already partaken at her family’s comfortable, brick home. And the dinner there was a feast. Her mother made roast beef with gravy, and the gravy had its own special porcelain dispenser! Her mother also served white and green vegetables that I had never heard of, and they were bathed in a creamy cheese sauce. And their beautiful wooden dining table was covered in a lace tablecloth, and you would not believe the elbow room! There was just Karen, her parents, and her younger brother. And no one had to sit on a piano bench!

I knew I was out of my element. When her father led the mealtime prayer, I reached for my forehead to make the sign of the cross, but stopped when everyone’s hands stayed still. They closed their eyes, so I closed mine ... part way, because I had to see when it was time to reopen them. And when the odd words came from their lips, I stayed silent.

Come Lord Jesus, be our guest and let thy gifts to us be blessed. Amen.

At the conclusion of the prayer, someone stuck a big bowl of mashed potatoes in front of me. I soon learned the art of passing food around the table at dinnertime. These German Lutherans had some curious mealtime customs. But their food was great, and they were good company and there was laughter. Not once did religion intrude upon the table talk, even though Karen’s folks knew about my religion, and her father was an elder in their Lutheran church.

Several weeks later, it was Karen’s turn to go on display at my Catholic house. If she was nervous, she didn’t show it. Karen smiled and was the picture of composure as she and all 10 members of my family crowded around the dining room table. She got to sit in a real chair, because she was a guest. (One of my younger brothers and our mother sat on the piano bench, because they were both left-handed.)

There were no napkins at our table, but Karen wasn’t fazed. Then, all but she made the sign of the cross, and all but she launched into a prayer:

“Bless us O Lord and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ Our Lord, Amen.” (However, we sped through our prayer. It sounded more like one continuous word.)

Still, she was composed. But her true test came the instant we said “amen,” because that was the signal for my parents to stand up and dish out the food. Their arms moved furiously around the table. Dad dolloped the mashed potatoes with a big spoon as if he was on a precision bombing mission, each scoop hitting a plate with a hearty thwack. Mom moved around with the fried chicken, dropping her missiles by hand. They worked as a team; my mother finished her run first, so she moved onto spooning up the canned corn.

My father took on the final pre-dinner mission. He grabbed the salt shaker with his big fist and strafed the table, making a pass over each plate. But Karen took a stand: As the salt began to rain down in front of her, she reflexively put her hands over her food, and the crystals bounced off. None of us had ever seen such an expert defensive move at the dinner table. My brothers were in awe. But this Catholic family harbored one nagging question: Why didn’t Lutherans like salt?

Just like at Karen’s house, religion did not intrude at the dinner table. People were too busy eating, laughing, joking, and salting.

I meet you at the table

We play our cards as they’re dealt

I call your bluff

You don’t call mine

You leave me at the table

Leave your cards on the table

Leave your heart on the table

I keep mine

Flush away my emotions in pursuit of the game

You leave straight away

We meet again at another table

Years down the line

The eye contact Deja vu from another time

but we’re playing a new game

Given new cards

Given a chance for a different call

I meet you at the table

We put arms on the table

we trace the grain, or linen, or other veins

or fold our fingers, and wait

We count chairs and plates

the hands of the clock change place

and we watch, with horror, grrr

as our guest pushes back a seat

and sets both feet, atop the table.