Monday, November 12, 2012

May I ask?

Fall's yellow squash and polished apples heap in the kitchen basket.  The green melons and berries of summer followed the sun away south.  These are the days for homemade chili and halal lamb, for hunkering down against the rain.

Tender words, like fingers pressed to a wound, suss out the edges of your grief.  Has it been long enough that we may talk about it?  I suffer to see you suffer.  I fear you will fear I've forgotten. I have not.

Your wisdom discloses itself.  In the way you know to remember that you are loved.  In the way you lean on me because you know how I long to help you. 

Your faith is a blessing endowed by your father and your people and it is fitting that you rely on it.

When God calls, we go.  That is what you have said.  Agnostic though I be, I see the truth of it.

Père est allé avec DieuToutes les choses doivent passer.  Il est vrai.

So much wisdom.  So much quiet courage.

So proud of you.  So proud.  

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