Sixth Station
The dark has liftedfor a moment now,and film of dirt and sweat,blurring His eye focusto make crazy patterns on the road,he cleared.
Too cool clean clothfeels sweet against His face -He remembers His motherhad the same gentleness in her touchwhen she had washed from Himthe grime a child's play made,these many years ago,and held a fresh white towelclose. This towel, too He sees is white.
The road no longer blursand rocks before His eyes.He tries to smile a little across the pain that cracks His lips,and hands the woman's kerchiefback to her.His dark eyes look, then, into hers.He leaves remembranceof HIs gratitude indelibleupon her towel's whiteness, and carriesindelible upon His HeartVeronica's gentle act of courtesy.
~ Anna Mae Marheineke, RSCJ
