Warrant
Thirty years later she would continue to lose children.
Few would make it as far as Joe, who lived long enough to warrant a tomb;
A simple epitaph of words he never learned to speak.
Her daughters carried on the traditions of investing in faith over hope;
The natal procession continued as it always had, burying children. Oh, well.
Until the age of faith came to an end,
And self-determination and upper-handedness turned miscarriages and stillbirths into aborted attempts.
And aborted successes;
Peppered with gut-punches, binge drinking and precipitous stairwells.
Oh, well.
None of THESE would find the blessings of earth;
Cast sorrowfully upon tiny pine boxes;
Too fragile to be dug up centuries later by archaeologists having a field day.
I have never uttered the phrase, ‘Oh, my brother,’ because he never existed.
There was nothing to wrap in palm leaves and commit to the heavens;
Nothing more than procedures and apologies.
I don’t imagine the occasional voice is his, nor wayward thought not my own.
There would be no site for me to visit with lilies and ask him to stop;
Tell him it’s all right to go on.
I had a family friend in those days who understood the power of encouragement;
He wielded that sword to bold and powerful effect on me;
Until the day came that our mission was to be aborted, taken on the road and settled every year.
One step ahead of the authorities.
I still remember his assurances, however,
You’re gonna be just fine.
As though he saw in me a hidden talent, the gift of contentedness.
I am just fine, I would whisper each night.
I thank you, God, for this ability.
Once, we drove through Nebraska, an ideal state for me.
No one goes to Nebraska.
You go through Nebraska, maybe, on the way to Rushmore.
Perhaps you fly overhead, on the way to O’Hare.
You certainly don’t realize that the roadside café where we’re eating has meaning.
That I picked the table by the window for a reason.
That you now fill the chair filled by an aborted hope I once imagined;
And that she is very likely content some 1,000 miles away.
I recommend an item on the menu, having heard it’s the special.
You wonder how I would know, never having been here before, and I laugh, and say,
Just an old joke.
This item is always the special.
All across the country.
There were gifts at the beginning of time, when Gabriel guarded Eden, of course.
I’m not the only one so blessed with talent.
To the very strong God granted honor and endurance and fidelity;
So that they might serve mankind as exemplars and archetypes.
To the innocent were granted kindness and grace;
So that there might be those to whom we could turn in forgiveness.
And to the very weak, He cursed them with love.
So that they might struggle outside the gates and serve as a lesson and a warning.
Love is the domain of the weak.
You seem so sweet to me when you tell me you never wanted to hurt me.
Sweet, but immodest.
It’s just that you said the wrong thing, that’s all.
What a relief, I replied. I was starting to cave under the weight of always saying the right thing.
She laughed at this, the first time someone had reacted so to my sarcasm.
And I finally believed that my gift might be uncovered;
Perhaps turned over to the proper authorities.