the painting i see every night before closing my eyes and every morning when i open them. "she will find what is lost" by brian kershisnik
sleeping
waking.
husband knows.
i'm still
but awake.
our world is quiet
but theirs' is not.
"they are talking to you."
i hear the smile in his sleep.
he knows.
"go,"
he says.
his words, that i can hear,
push me out of bed.
i'm coming.
i'm coming.
i don't hear their voices
but i listen to the empty.
i don't feel their hands
but my head turns.
i don't see them
but they help me to see.
guiding.
pointing.
hoping.
the world is asleep
while i am
seeking
searching
finding.
don't forget me.
remember,
remember me.
tell my story.
i will,
help me to find it.
and i do.
don't forget him
says the mother cradling a baby.
there
there
look there.
she knows
where.
she points
i turn.
her whole hope based on
one line.
one record.
she guides,
i find.
there.
her son.
"infant, boy."
there are more.
they are
crowding
waiting
pleading.
i am
praying
typing
reading.
seeking
seeking
seeking
my ears strain in the darkness
my fingers pray across the keyboard
my hope bigger than the task.
a picture appears before me
my heart swells
with joy,
with recognition?
with peace.
i found you.
i found you.
i feel the echo.
you found me.
you found me.
--tim's 5th great aunt, from scotland, a preacher's wife who loved to sit with her husband before the fire in the evenings.--
--and the list of babies, not ever pictured, who i have been blessed to find.