The Way Home

For forty weeks I kneaded a promise, introducing myself to an enigmatic stranger that resided within stretching boundaries until he overflowed into my soul. While his lungs searched the air for breaths of inspiration my hands, for the first time, reached for a warmth greater than faith or flesh without hesistation and without the familiar fear of rejection. I’d never before expected so much from someone so small or trusted myself so much to have the courage to die a little, bury one child to nurture another but I did. Fifteen years of rough waters and sea monsters and my tides still rise and fall by the ebb and flood of his negotiating moons; sometimes I feel as if I’ll be washed away while garnishing his heart and mind with vigilant shepherds but I shine on, sewing bright buoys to sea foam so that when someday my lamp has been doused my son will still know his way home.