I once had your trusting hand.
You walked with me then, and I
walked with you, and we
walked within – the
separateness a spot in the distance.
For I would go with you
beside the still waters, or
through the cold doorway of Hell,
if but I had your hand.
Your growing eyes bent slowly from me
to the untamed place,
here or there, up ahead.
And you couldn’t wait to arrive –
with the neon sign flashing its distraction
and your hand letting go. Up ahead,
you’re a spot in the distance.
And I wonder if you remember
what I had Luke whisper
in your infant ear so long ago, and if
you still think it’s waiting for you somewhere –
and if I’ll see you again on the other side.
Why the sad face, angel? We let go, all of us. It is the nature of us to separate ourselves from our sources, to try and find our own way, to try to find whatever we’re looking for out there somewhere. As children must separate themselves from their parents (and parents from their children). Or as friends or lovers or brothers or sisters move apart from one another. But in the separation there is a certain kind of beauty of life experience that makes the parting a sweet sorrow. But always, if we’re true, we remember. And in life’s great separation, we come back in the end, I think. If we’re true. If we’re listening. If we’re paying attention. And this is what gets us past the sorrow of the parting. We remember. We remember what we knew as infants. It’s been with us all along, after all. And so we come to understand Luke 17:21 in all its profound truth.
Watching the next generation separate themselves is both triumph and sadness. We invest what we can, in imperfect ways, and hope that whatever good was in us continues on. What our children will carry is not the list of books we give them, but what is written on the heart. That is why we raise children instead of building robots.
Face it, Rainey. You are a romantic of romantics. Good. If there is anything sad, it is that there aren’t enough of you to go around. =D>
