On sunny summer days
He played hard
at skelly, jump rope, skating, cycling,tag.
Choral voices of children at play crept though
second floor windows and around sharp city corners.
Cars slowed down on blocks like these
in deference to signs of "Children at Play."
But where kids play, they also cry:
They fall off,
They scrape a knee.
They suffer wounds of the spirit,
Maybe even lose a fight.
And they retreat from the street.
They go inside to find a strong, soft shoulder
on which to release the tears.
And every so often he'd find her on her knees with her face against the seat of her chair.
But he found what he was looking for, a maternal voice promisng, "It's gonna be alright."
A bandaid of hope and help
And a gentle nudge to go back out to the fray
Thirty years later he yearns to return to the same shoulder. But it's been three years
since that shoulder and spirit and life had been covered with six inches of soil.
To whom shall he turn to nurse his wounds, to hear the maternal voice uttering those promises of his youth?
He could only recapture the image of the her bended knees, but he assumed her prostrate position. And looking for her, he found something greater.
Finding her God, "our hope in ages past, the hope of things to come," he found what he sought--that voice that told him to
Go back outside.
It's gonna be alright.
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