|At Plaza Blanca|
So, I look forward to this time--Henry isn't a baby anymore, and I've had good practice this year in writing more. It will be easier to start.
I love our Spring Break retreat vacations. I love road trips. I love the desert. I'm turning in my mind to the time of quiet.
As I've been planning and preparing for Holy Week and Easter, I worked more on a poem I wrote a few months ago, as I processed a sad story that happened far away. Still working, and have two versions going, but this one is my favorite right now.
Close your eyes now, I’ll take a turn and keep watch.
I’ll get the baby tonight.
I’ll sit up with the sick one.
I’ll listen to the wind;
If it seems like we should take cover, I’ll let you know.
If the earth shakes, and you sit up straight with surprise, I’ll take your hand and lead you to the doorway. That’s the best we can do about that. If the place will hold, it will hold.
If someone pounds on the door, I’ll be there first, to answer the questions. I’ll be awake, don’t worry. I know it doesn’t lock anyway, I know it doesn’t matter if it does lock. I’ll stand there in the opening as long as I can.
You, exhausted with worry and fear. You, watching and waiting through the nights.
You need back up. You need a break.
Or at least, company.
It’s unending…”Before the disaster”, “the disaster”, “after the disaster”.
No amount of watching could make it stay away. (But if I see it on the horizon, if I have a little warning…)
No amount of waiting would make it never happen. (But if I anticipate it, if I can ready myself…)
So you have to lie down now, while you can.
I’ll listen. I’ll watch. Except, I cannot.
I feel sorry that I can’t do that for you. I feel ashamed that I am not able.
“Can’t you keep watch with me for one hour?”
No. I cannot.