Thursday, May 13, 2010
A Prayer Called Home
There is a prayer called Home
where there is a hand to hold
and a smile to give
and a chair to sit...
where there are stories to share
colors to see
and laughter to flow through your bones...
where there is quiet afternoon
and music that lifts from a back room...
where mess are made
then cleaned up with gentle, tired hands...
where a weary head can rest
and there is a hem to hold
with bread to feed your soul...
in a prayer called Home.
Photo - me and my grandpa, 1976. I am 5.
He died of cancer when I was 14. Several weeks before dying, he told me not to forget who I am. It wasn't long after that I promptly began to forget...silently look the other way.
I have been remembering. I am remembering.
...the past 4 years, one year, six months...
I am remembering. It hurts my belly. I laugh. I cry.
I am coming home.