For those whose pain has no name...

A word saved me last year, a phrase
with simple words,
"you're not alone"
from a brother I had not seen in years
his words
encircled my heart
and named my pain.

I felt he passed me
a fine embroidered
lacy hanky
smelling of a jacaranda afternoon
when I reluctantly put the little boy on the back of my
bike and rode off
to visit with my friends.

Then, like an old wound,
a blood red stain on a pretty crinoline
I remember how much he appreciated these little
rides I argued with Mother about.

I knew not to build on sand.

What was I supposed to be
supposed to do
to
transform
the world for you?

Miracles I thought
were pots full of hope.
So, with every meal I cooked
every plant I nurtured
every line I wrote
every book I read,
new tomorrows were evolving
around us
bright packages
at the back door
fair bargains
for my naive prayers.

I had no business
expecting more,
illiterate as I
was
in the ways of miracles.

I was the type of mother
who knew not which  roads
to travel
which story to weave
which mine to invest in
what silver spoons were or weren't
or what they would be used for.

I walked on sandy shores every day
looking to reach solid ground
so your first steps would be stable
your voice clearer
your talent
planted on fertile ground.

Who would have predicted
the seismic change
of fortune
that turned solid ground
to slippery sands in seconds.

I knew not to build on sand.
I didn't know not to build with miracles.