He towered over the troubled child,
virtuous, virgin of hope,
ripped from a child herself.
Messy when she fingerpaints,
messy when she scribbled words that would one day become whole worlds,
messy when she tried to climb the kitchen cabinets for biscuits before dinner,
his very own Macarena.
He had such hope for her,
unable to see her human failings,
and how he’d feel about them,
because a father’s love is beautifully blind,
and she was fantastically flawed,
in a way he would learn to love,
once the disappointment dimmed.
he still towers over her,
watching from God’s garden as his cherished child fingerpaints herself into futile corner after futile corner.
You came home,
long hair billowing in the spring winds,
sunlight shining through the open door as the sea of your mother’s tears finally parted and peace returned to her pillow.
She lived another lifetime in the time you were gone,
her eyes were weary but her arms were welcoming,
and you fit so neatly inside her embrace,
because it was your home.
Your soul is scarred but you don’t let her see,
breaking bread while the sun sets,
and she stares with awe filled eyes,
because her heart was gone,
three days of hell,
endured by a pure woman,
who had felt more pain than she had ever caused,
but you came home,
and now her heart is where it belongs.
I was on the pier,
playing my part in filling the ocean,
collapsing under the chaos of home,
bound to return,
but broken at the thought.
For a moment,
for the very first time,
I was alone.
There had never been a voice,
or even a familiar, friendly hand to hold,
just a promise of forever,
that surrounded me,
it suddenly went out.
as I bled into the beach,
begging for the space to breathe,
for believing to be easier,
for just a second.