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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & Owner
Ray Rasmussen, General Editor

Volume 13, Number 1, March 2019

Marcyn Del Clements
Claremont, California, USA

The Visitation

I fall into bed, bone tired. It's late. I'm almost out when a light begins to glow in one of the orange armchairs across the room. My eyes pop open. The chairs face each other so my husband and I could talk privately. Tell each other our secrets. When he passed, I kept them that way.

The glow gets brighter, and soon a form takes shape. It is Jesus. He is dressed in white chinos and a white Guayabera shirt. White embroidery of palm trees down the front. Loose fitting. Long sleeves rolled up to His elbows. He sits in the chair with the left ankle crossed on top of the right knee. Flexed at the hips. I can't do that. Ever since the horseback riding accident, when my sartorius muscle got strained. After that, my hip flexors were too tight.

You’re making this up, part of my mind tells me. Be still! I tell my mind. See if He speaks. I breathe softly. The light around Him shimmers and fades. Pulses, shimmers, and fades.

And soon, He is just an image of this young guy all in white. A bit more than a five-o'clock shadow on His face. I wait. Then He does speak. He says, "You're doing okay."

"I don't know," I tell Him. I should do more. Maybe feed the homeless? Volunteer for Meals on Wheels? Play my harp at the Health Center?

But then, the heater cycles on and I have to get up and go turn it off. Otherwise it will go on all night and wake me up.

When I slip back in bed, He's gone. Now I'll never know what to do with the rest of my life.

my koi are playing
in the moonlight
one fish jumps clear out
her re-entry splash
sounds like clapping



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