Ill health crept in, like a surreptitious, tip-toeing thief. I didn’t notice it’s presence until it was leaning over me, reaching in for a close embrace. It breathed me in, and then it had me.

The snow swirled, and the wind beat against the windows. Winter and illness were engaged in a stiff competition to bring me to my knees. I counted the hours, and then, the seconds. I breathed in and out, my respirations becoming deep sighs that kept pace with the ticking of the clock.

Winter leached my face of color, and my eyes darkened, as though in a desperate bid to punctuate the pale landscape of my skin with an exclamation mark. My bones ached, and my limbs faltered. The woman in the mirror was being erased and replaced with an image of a woman I couldn’t recognize. Who, and what was I becoming?

Death rapped on the door, and peered in through the windows, begging to be let in. I barred the door lest I be tempted.

Jesus came to me in dreams, and smiled. Despair sat down beside me.

The doctors shook their heads, and showed me to the door, as baffled as I was. I went home and sat in my rocking chair, rocking away my worries and acquiescing to the storm raging inside of me.

I picked up my guitar and dusted it off. I began writing songs; beautiful ballads temporarily allowing me to forget my woes.

They put me on prednisone, still unsure of what auto-immune disorder had taken over executive control of my body. After four days it began working its alchemy. Death retreated fifty paces, crooking a bony finger at me.

Jesus looked at me with tender eyes, and I drew closer.

I remembered love and it comforted me.