Following in the Absence of an Imperfect Light

Like the three magi,

we come bearing gifts.

But instead of gold, frankincense, and myrrh,

our arms are laden with a casserole, brownies, and a fruit tray.

We are not here to celebrate the heavenly birth of a perfect babe,

but to mourn the death of an imperfect girl,

     effervescent, moving, gone,

     taken by the all-too-earthly thief

     that is addiction.

Though we merely traverse a few city blocks,

mentally we come from afar,

from shock, to grief, to memories,

     memories of those once so close to our hearts

     who have left but a few paltry reminders of their presence behind.

That familiar sickly sweet smell of funerary flowers,

     as powerful as any spirit,

fills our heads with sorrow.

The once-heavenly mother looks tired, worn, but a wisp of a woman,

the father, too broken to carry on.

And the child, the gleaming star,

has returned to the blue yonder,

     the world's precious gift torn out of its clinging, uplifted arms.

We, the physicians, are to play the role of wise men,

but no amount of knowledge can reverse

this ultimate stage of disease.

And we, like the three magi,

have arrived too late.