When I was younger
I never quite understood the sadness on first Sundays
I sat in the first pew
Staring up at pastor
But, one Sunday service I sat next to momma
And when it was time for communion
I sensed in innocence an ignorance
For I never knew the battle between flesh and skin.
Then I saw it,
Beauty
At its finest
Bent down, palm’s clasped tight
Eyes shut.
Heart, Heavy
Filled with burdens.
Momma
Residing in a savior that could pull her through
The days she was worn
And couldn’t quite figure it out.
Before this was clear to me
Momma’s voice
Rang
Clear
Sweet and sedate
“Dear God”
Water, salted by satin
Leaves lines
Of a sinful past
Her brown eyes hold deep sorrow and conviction
Full of mourning
Helplessness
Pain and abandonment
I know this voice
All to well
I know this voice
Because it connects me back to myself
My spine
Straightening
My eyes forward
My mind focused for the better days
I sit still
Wondering if they’ll ever be better for my
momma
Ears embracing innocence from a guilty conscious
Can’t look at her like this
Broken
“Help me O lord”
Help us God
?