“What’s this?” you asked, as you lifted up
a small black velvet pouch.
“It’s healing oil,” I said, and fished out the
heavy brass vial, twisted off the lid,
and dipped a finger inside.
“I give it to people who are sick, or sad,
so they can remember God’s love.”
The fragrance encircled us.
“I want some,” you said, and I hesitated—then
brushed it across your untroubled forehead,
the sign of the cross.
You know nothing of the hurts
this oil has touched,
thank God.

But today, in the kitchen,
I was hunting for a pan,
my back to you, and when I turned,
your hand was full of broken egg,
and a puddle oozed
from stepstool to floor.
I scolded, much more than necessary,
and you cried hard.
I realized the mess I had made
and mopped it up,
wiping tears off heartbroken cheeks.
Moments later, there was a new egg, and a jug of oil
that you eyed from your pristine perch:
“Oil, just like on my forehead!” you said.
Yes, I thought,
healing is a mystery,
for in measuring and mixing, somehow
we began anew.