The last year, an intermission, passed.
My son lives in a home far away–the right place, the right care.
Peace sits on us both like a skin.
I am no longer mired in my grief-summer, nor my loss-winter.
This is the next act.
What will I do with it?
It is a season for driving with my mother.
For being a bulwark to a friend with a burden.
For writing, and for thinking about writing.
For filling in the ancestor gaps in my family tree.
Losing oneself in unfamiliar work is unnerving—
uncomfortable, in that it bends and folds,
ripping and rebuilding by lengthening,
The new act demands openness;
eyes–an outward gaze,
feet, walking through the debris,
arms, strong and tired with carrying,
mind, wanting to learn,
heart, pummeled with compassion.
This act doesn’t come naturally to me.
I can drive, do research, play with toddlers, cobble at words, look around,
God will tell me the why and the how.
I can learn the Selfless Act