Red hair

My mother...the one that raised me...had beautiful long auburn hair. I would stand in the doorway of the pink bathroom and watch her sit at the dressing table, brushing it out, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly...then twisting it into a beautiful cinnamon-y bun and pinning it with auburn hairpins. 

"The woman named Tomorrow sit in her chair...
and fastens at last the last braid and coil and turns and drawls,
"Well, what of it? My grandmother, Yesterday, is dead.
Well, what of it? Let the dead be dead."

And the doors were cedar and the strips on the doors were gold,
and the girls were golden girls and the panels read and the girls chanted,
"We are the greatest city, the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was!" " 
 

I have some version of that Carl Sandburg poem in my head...something I read when I was a freshman in high school.

I walked into a room of chaos, and I was drawn to the beautiful red hair. The beautiful, long red hair on the boy. I took his hand, waving around the room, into mine, and stilled it. I held it tightly. And I said, "You are going to be okay. We are here to help."
And the mother kept apologizng to me for him, concerning his behavior.  I watched her listen, and then talk, to the doctor. 
"He's such a good child...I just don't understand. It has to have been an accident."

I ignored what was said and looked at the boy, "We are going to listen. I promise." He looked at me for a moment, and then began flailing  around, fighting the demons he saw.

I called to the good in the room...I heard them all. The family...I spoke words I knew they could hear...and when I began to pray, an extra hand entered the circle. I didn't even see her in the room.

But I understood it all.  Being there gave new meaning to my own suffering. Forced me to see again into that messy humanity where right and wrong are not so clear. 


And I was so pissed at God. I knew what he was showing me, too. And I screamed at God in my head, in the milliseconds between doing my work...how dare you take me here...now...I hate you. I do not want to think about this.

And yet, I knew the boy's pain...and heard the mother's denial...

"How can you be sick? You have had a perfect life."

And it goes back to that perspective thing.

Young man

Do not give in

To the despair

That tempts you so.

Take comfort in

My hand.

I have known, too

misunderstanding

expectations

hungers

that as yet have names.

Take my hand

with you in the darkness

and let

this present pain out.

I will be your witness

sign the paper

that says

it is true

it really happened.

This present pain

is your gift.

You did not die.

You will stay awhile longer

And learn

how to love

without hurting

so much.