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Paul Meier reading
Wounded Holidays
by Alan Harris
Dedicated to the Compassionate Friendsand all who are grieving the loss of a child
Young, they left our homes. In a moment, long or quick,they were gone.Dewdrops turned into teardrops, the shining sea too smallto hold our grief."Give us our children back," we pled as we noticed their plateless placesat the table.Regret made a river through our days, tempering laughter,pervading sudden silences.Bodies they had through us, with us-- bodies housing minds and souls--no longer.The holiday season's return makes throb now the woundswe felt at their parting,wounds which may heal in time, we hope,into strength--but not yet, in this season of snowflakes that sting and cookiesthat somehow taste of vinegar."If only," goes our carol. If only they could return to us--but no.If only we could speak with them--but no.If only we could love them so intensely that they couldfeel our presence right now--but yes, yes to this one, a thousand yesses--they can.How can they not feel our love, being core in core with us,heart in heart?We give love this season to them and to each other as plundered parentsand wounded healers.With love flowing, something in our lives-- a magnificent, mysterious Something--guides us like a star. |
From the book Knocking on the Sky (1997-98)
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(Paul Meier)
(Alan Harris)
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