All Saints' Day

"I feel old," he told the walls of his room. "I feel useless." "Then get up," a voice said (which shocked him). "Who-who is that? Who's there?" Arnoldo started, sitting up in a panic. "Be true to your promises; make good on your intentions when you gave me flowers and perfume and wine and said you would never forget," the voice whispered (barely audible, more of a sensation on the eardrum). "Rise up. RISE." "Antonia?" Arnoldo stuttered, staring into the dark corners beyond his bed, but feeling something besides fear. Breath, energy, chi, spirit, the mechanics of biology ... all were there, at work, wasted while he complained - the gift of life delayed in shipping. "I will rise," he said then, throwing the covers back. "No more empty offerings. I will make you proud of me." Arnoldo heard nothing further from the voice, but held its echoes in his heart as love that had crossed death to find him. He emerged from his cottage ready to help and heal, ready to nurture and guide, ready to serve and protect, ready to spend himself down to nothing only to earn his rest ... with her, with them ... and then rise.