Sometimes, I despair of living—it is too much work, too much pain—and even empathy for others’ pain is a weight,
and then my grandchild smiles, and the sleepy weight of her softness nestles deep into my chest—
and then the hummingbird flies iridescent, and dives and drinks and soars, lifting high my spirit—
and then my look-alike grand shakes her wily will and shows to the world that she does not need a village, but she does need a grandma.
And then a song moves in and through me and weight becomes weightless in the expression,
in the worship, but
the hunger to be free and home pulls strong,
and the release of material things gets easier, iron fingers opening,
the longing comes . . .
and then I feel your arms and your need and love that has been built on the ragged edge of two broken personalities,
and then I hear the soul cry in the eyes of the lost and wandering ones, our lost and wandering,
and hope comes with a will—
a will to press on,
and will swells in tears and sanctified joys,