How to Liveby Norita Dittberner-Jax
A hundred years ago, the fire of a Ukranian foundry forged this cross. You brought it from Kiev, the crucifix passed from one generation to another, the corpus worn and shining, a landscape of valleys and hills and the long geography of limbs. It fits my hand perfectly; my thumb worries the head, a comfort as it was for others who held it in sickness or hid it during persecution. Sometimes now I am tired. Worn down with caring. I want hours alone, the radio mute. Then I wonder, which way? Preserve myself? Or like the little cross from Kiev, Let the blessing of hands leave its shine upon me. © 2007 by Norita Dittberner-Jax. All rights reserved.