This happened years ago. She was very young and had a nimbus of curls. She was walking down a sidewalk holding your hand. She was clearly enjoying your company. She kept calling you “my robin.”
When I think of the ways you failed her and why you should have done more, done something–advocated for her–that is the image I see in my head. The last time I know for sure that your relationship to that little girl mattered.
At least to her.
Walking down the center of town. No shirt. Blue running shorts. Bit of a paunch and..
Snorkel gear…
One case when a picture would be worth at least 25 words
I have been struggling with the urge to buy new clothes. There is nothing wrong with new clothes, in fact, they can be wonderful. The reason I am struggling is that I know that my clothes are not my real issue. Sure, I am a garage sale dresser, sure, I really need to watch the cookies (instead of eating them), but my real issue is that I want to leave my sadness behind. I want to leave my anger behind. It would be nice to leave grief and fear behind as well.
Since I know dieting is no fun and sadness dogs the human condition, new clothes seem to be the easiest route to happiness.
I think about Tamar tearing her embroidered sleeves and the parable of the wedding goer, scorning his new clothes and I think about mine–not mint cool in its season or glittery interesting or chic…
No. the clothing of Heaven. The garments of Truth. The items of clothing I would have to wear to feel that I had walked through the doors of safety into Home.
You can wear your fluffy slippers at home, or pajama pants and a Batman cape. That is why it is Home.
The place where only the clothing of sorrow is no longer
necessary.
our faces clothed in light
no.
all the bodies
of water in texas
run to the sea
run to the words
of our ancient creed
the body of a man
downed–
corpus Christi
his mother, a lake
and the sound of an island
Father…
maybe I love them…
because of the Jesuits
because Spanish is a mother tongue
Corpus Christi, Padre Island, Laguna Madre…
all the rivers flow to the sea
all the beautiful rivers–
the Trinity used to be my favorite
even when it would flood
and desperate men would sand bag it
or flee for higher ground
but there are other rivers now
that haunt my memory,
the Guadalupe, for instance
means–
girl comes from wolves
from the valley of wolves
spreads foreign roses at my feet
there is no “g” or “d” in my native language
but then maybe Juan Diego himself was just a phantom
like the pings off a cell
tower
electrical beacons conspiring
with sound
looking for a lost son
what river do you cross
to enter Texas?
and what river do you cross
to leave it?
go down to that River that runs to the sea
and find my boy,
all our lost children
Come Home.
d
be the stranger
in the rumpled coat
sitting on the bench
in the train station, in the park
who abides all your sorrow
who listens to your torrent of sadness
who ponders your own
sea of grief
let me be the silent
placeholder
for the God of grief
who alone
can wake the dead
And by pain I mean grief, and by grief I mean the loss of someone who is so essential to your well-being that breathing hurts,that everything turns dark.
Sometimes that someone can be you.
The heartlessness of grief lies on the endless horizon. One day of loss is hard, a wasteland. But when we grieve we know (or part of us knows) that the endless sea of brutal days without the beloved is part of the weight of sorrow. We desperately want a reprieve, and when there is none there is a madness in sorrow.
This is Jesus on the Cross. He is the focal point of endless loss–Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? We know our grief feels endless and unbearable. We know His was.
I once looked up the valley of the shadow of death. I wondered if it was an actual geographical location. It is not. And this is why–the shadow of death is the place we walk through when the loss of our loves leaves us there–feeling alone and abandoned.
But it is only the shadow. The pain of grief ripping through the core of our souls is merely–merely, the shadow of death. Real death we see only from a distance as a Man agonizes on the cross of history. He walks through the valley of death…so we never have to…
is a beautiful
girl
swimming
smooth strokes through the water
how did she learn to do that?
was it me?
was it you?
was it the strength of all our recessive
genes?
we would say everything
she did was beautiful
and that would be true
but we were
her family
and now
that she has slipped
through the waters
with her confident stroke
not paddling
awkwardly like a child
when i was a child…i thought like a child
reasoned like a…
child
come back!
you can do flip turns
with your eyes closed
come back–
do not
put childish ways behind you–
I need you here
cannot
think
of the world
one day without you
even though I know–
believe–
that we do see
but a poor reflection
(as in a mirror)
then we
shall
see
face to face
Again.
(tiny voice)
still small voice…
come back–
What if they were like
Objects?
That you could touch with your hands?
Wipe a counter or a brow with Love?
Or spread an ermine Mercy
Over the body
Of a sleeping child?
What if anger had a bifurcated
Tongue
Lighting
Either chaff
Or
Home on fire
What word?
What ordinary word?
Would stop the fire
Speak peace to the wind
And rebuke
The dogs of loss
Shelter
Just a roof and walls around us
Won’t define us
Won’t be
Nothing but a house
Kept me safe
I thought
Kept us all
Safe
I thought
Wrong
Wolf don’t give no warning
Just blow the walls down
Just a house
Not my soul
Mercy take my soul
When the wind come through
Us all
Carry us
Home
Is crying
I would bottle her grief
If I could
Bury it
No.
But it would bloom
Pour it out
Like a drink offering
Like a grief offering
Like a broken
Bottle
Alabaster keepsake
Dowry, maybe
For a child, a baby
Stolen
From our memory
Of happiness
And its careful
Lie- constructed
Illusion
Carrying Light 