My little man, frame heaving with his sobs;
tiny woes all tangled in his sweaty hair and
swollen eyes; his sun has shattered into bits;
his world has tumbled upside down. I hold him
tight and whisper love to wash away his grief;
it merely swizzles through his tears.
Helpless as the stars that cannot burn away
earth’s woes, I simply smooth taut ridges of his
back, his shoulders, and his neck, the only
thing I know to do; my fingers slowly find their
way into his anxious heart, begin to knead
away his sorrowed fear.
“Damma”—my garbled name floats to the
surface of his sobs; our fingers intertwine;
together now, like tiny insects building
intricate abodes, we gather all the pieces of his
brokenness and bit by bit, we work to mend that
A memory from long ago, but
still, from time to time, when my sun
fades or troubles knot my thoughts, that
quiet “damma” nestles in my bones, I
feel our fingers intertwined, stillness wraps
around my shoulders, tiny threads of light
weave through my shadowland.