the line at the post office
goes right out the door,
people making sure their boxes and cards
are sent to where they need to go
by december twenty-fourth.
procrastinating, like i did, perhaps;
this line is now our consequence.
the sterile fluorescent lights
in this stale, pale, and crowded room
reveal only one clerk at the counter
and the clock says it’s lunch time.
the line moves slow;
i could stay or i could go,
but it won’t get any better
until after december, i know.
so now i must wait.
“i’m going to be late,”
the complaints
of the man behind me
strengthen my resolve because
i don’t want to be like him.
someone else comes in
to yell at the clerk;
this slow-moving line has
disrupted his afternoon.
another man calls him out
for being such a jerk.
i shrivel up inside myself
while the woman behind the counter
extending grace at each encounter,
smiles still at every person, and
simply hums a christmas tune.
i think i would break
under the pressure of this onslaught
of impatient strangers and i don’t know
how she does it.
now retreating,
i’ve been reading
the story of your birth, god,
your coming to this earth.
there were some who chose to sing
when complaining
was probably the easier thing.
zechariah lost his voice.
mary didn’t have a choice;
still their hearts would sing.
all lined up,
this moment is tense
but there’s also meaning here.
something sacred is before me
and maybe it is only for me,
but i hope the others also hear.
at the post office in the city
i beheld a holy thing;
despite the sighs and rolling eyes
a woman chose to sing.