Monday, August 11, 2008

How do you hit someone like her?
She who has the softest, smallest hands that can fix anything?
How do you scream such nasty things?
She who whispers Polish lullabies at the most necessary times?
How do you burn her skin, her spirit with your cigarettes
She who swims at dawn and flies at dusk.

You will never admit it,
but she is so much stronger than you could ever hope to be.
And if I could help her move the last of her pots and plants and Chinese lanterns to the other side of the world, I would.
But I don’t have a car, and she doesn’t want to leave her cat.
So we sit on the floor of her secret one room apartment in silence,
Knowing just how close it came…and grieving just how far it went.

You who reason in rage,
You are a fool to think you have won.
Because some day her hands will stop shaking
And some day she will sing again,
And some day I will wave to her once more from the sand.

It’s just that today is not that day.
Today He has brought her to a quiet place of rest,
Away from your anger, and your words, and your burns.
And He’ll stay watch over her as He does every night,
And she’ll dream dreams of home, of heaven, of times when she was happy,
Of times when she wasn’t always weeping, always asking:


*posted with permission

1 comment:

Mary said...

wow! Did you write this? Such impact!