For Musa standing in the rear-view mirror of my mind
in a snow-swirled deserted street on a silent night
singing in surgical cap and scrubs. Amen.
It had been a hard trip.
Snow and ice sweeping across
the plains grounded most flights.
Mine was the last to land
before they closed O'Hare
just after midnight.
My heavy luggage behaved
without going on hiatus to Hawaii
(an auspicious sign).
But it found me waiting weary
by the conveyor belt, wondering
why I was even there.
I was unlikely to gain a tick
in the tenure box
by presenting a paper at this conference
despite its national status in my field.
And by this time I knew I didn't want
to spend my life there anyway, so why?
Outside, one lone independent car for hire,
creepy beneath lurid airport lights,
crawled tentatively toward me, stopped.
A colorful kufi popped up
beneath an eager, broad smile:
"You need ride, Miss?"
There was no one else around. No one.
Was this guy legit? My mother had warned me
about women getting into strange cabs
never to be found again.
But she also stockpiled 100 cans of tuna
under her bed in case Y2K brought the apocalypse, so . . .
Eyes pleading he needed this fare, he continued smiling,
then thrust out his hand as he bounced forward. "Musa!"
I warily met his gaze. "Tess," I said, grateful to have him load my bags
while I took a picture of his license and registration on the dash.
Then off we went into the snow-blind deserted streets
while I pretended to call my husband.
Actually, he was snug sound asleep in bed,
so I was leaving him a message.
In the event of an abduction, I'd devised a plan:
I'd toss my phone aside with sent picture and voice text recorded
as a modern-day Gretel's breadcrumb for police
in case my body was never found.
Musa's twinkly knowing eyes meet mine in the rear-view mirror.
"You are a smart woman. Can't be too careful
to get in a strange car with a strange man."
"You'd like my mom," I say. Then, "Are you strange, Musa?"
He laughs. "Nah. In my country I am a doctor.
I leave because of bad men. But no medical license here yet, so . . ."
We talk of the war in Nigeria, Boko Haram,
of his family depending on him to get them out somehow,
of what it will take to practice medicine again in the U. S.
He asks why I'm in Chicago. I tell him my frustrations
with academia and my regret in moving my family
to a place so conservative that I'm weary of the fight.
I notice cars abandoned along the beltway,
yet never once has our car slipped or slid.
Musa steers us slowly but steadily forward.
For the first time all day, my shoulders relax,
my ribs expand in welcome of crisp clean air.
I unconsciously begin to hum a season's carol.
I'm practically asleep when Musa exclaims,
"You sing?" Startled, I apologize. "Oh, sorry!
Sometimes I don't know I'm humming.
It can be annoying." "No! I love Christmas!
I am Christian, in the church choir."
He turns on a radio station playing holiday music.
"Now we sing!" Musa says, delighted as a child eager to meet Santa.
Joy to the world! The Lord is come! his bass booms.
Despite my fatigue, his enthusiasm is infectious.
So we sing indeed. Whatever comes on, we give it our all.
And ye, beneath life's crushing load . . .
O rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing!
The radio is a private chorus to our duets. We're not half bad.
We falter a bit, though, on one too seldom heard:
I heard the bells on Christmas day . . .
"There is no peace on Earth," I said.
For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on Earth, good will to men.
We fall silent and listen as the radio choir
adds an unfamiliar verse:
But the bells are ringing (peace on Earth)
Like a choir singing (peace on Earth)
Does anybody hear them? (peace on Earth)
Peace on Earth, good will to men.
We heartily join in with what we do know:
Then rang the bells more loud and deep.
God is not dead, nor doth He sleep.
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on Earth, good will to men.
Musa wipes his tears, hands tissues back to me.
Still, with full throats and full hearts,
on we sing through that treacherous night,
glad for one another's song in our warm car
that, under Musa's surgical expertise,
traversed snow-clogged arteries
in conditions others avoid to stay safe and sound.
We pull up to the Hyatt's snow-muffled silence
blasting, Angels we have heard on high . . .
Glo-----ri-a. In excelsis Deo!
Out we tumble, laughing like old drunk friends,
alarming the weary doorman, valet, and porter
who exchange troubled looks.
Musa and I trade baggage and blessings:
"Merry Christmas, Brother! And to your family, too."
"Merry Christmas, to you, too, Sister!"
We hug goodbye with unspoken awareness
that the reason why we undertake all our dangerous journeys
is simply to sing together, if only we dare.