The room is dimly lighted but bright lights shine in certain places. They’re not really rooms, just open spaces, yet set apart from the other places, and there are other “rooms” just like this one, several of them, here and there.
We are on the fifth floor of a large hospital, in the children’s wing, and right now we’re where the premature babies hang out. Nurses and doctors work intently, standing over the young children who seem to be lying in fish tanks and who don’t really look like young children, but tiny replicas of human beings - miniscule dolls, amazingly small. The nurses and doctors stand with lights brightly focused here and there, with hands and tools moving smartly and cleverly like they might be crafting precious jewels.
I’ve lost track of time and space; the world whirls and I wonder if I may be present in that mythical place where babies are made. And I sense the presence of power, incredible amounts of power, coming not from the electricity in the room, or the knowledge of the doctors working here, or from the the hospital itself, but from prayers; some coming from a room near-by, others like great sailing ships arriving from far, far away.
© John Womack, 2006. All Rights Reserved.
