I’m almost positive that I published this poem before. I’m doing it partly for myself and for Michael.
The stories that emerged during Michael’s 11 years of what he calls “humanitarian aid” could, and this is a cliche, fill volumes. There were smiles, tears, laughter, pride to the extent of bursting, fear to the point of hysteria, quiet waiting for the phone to ring–giving (please God) relief or the worst news a parent could ever receive…the three of us grew and survived it in different ways. Peter speaks for himself; even I don’t fully know what went on in his mind while Michael was in a horrible place. But I’ll speak for myself. Through all of it–earthquakes, floods, hurricanes–there was this quiet, calm place located in the center of my being. The image that comes to mind is a pool of water in a quiet mountain scene, full of greenery. The water in this pool is quiet and deep. Nothing disturbs it.
This poem refers to what I think was the worst summer of all. Michael was assigned by the United Nations to spend time in Russia. I won’t even try to explain in detail what happened there. But I will say that my son was listed by the UN as “missing” and nobody knew where he was. Peter and I were holding ourselves together, each in his/her own way. People asked us how we could stand it and I would say: What choice do I have? If I let myself fly into a fit of hysterics, what would that change?
This was the time when I began to know about the quiet pool at the center of things. Four months elapsed when Michael was in Russia and I went to work and back, did everything I was supposed to do and yes, I was scared, but there was this faith that held me together. It wasn’t spoken and I didn’t pray for it. After some pondering I realized: a bond existed between me and my son that nothing could break. Michael sensed this–he told me that of all the parents of the people in his team, I was the only mother who didn’t scream, yell, cry, and threaten to throw themselves across the doorway when their children were called upon to uphold peace and order.
Am I bragging? Sort of. Did I do anything to earn these spiritual gifts? No. They were gifts from God. And I thank God that those days are firmly in the past now.
Finally, the part in the poem about “glory coming through the mail” refers to the day the mail lady brought a small box addressed to Michael from his UN supervisor. It was the blue and white ribbon of honor given to those people who gave good service; the pin, palm-shaped, is a sign of the highest achievement. Michael, having opened this package, sank down on the stairs and cried like a little boy. I just sat there with him, didn’t ask questions or try to make him stop crying. One of my better moments as a mother except that my strength came from God.
After Michael’s having spent a month in Haiti after an earthquake, I received an e-mail from a Dr. Aronson who worked alongside Michael as a volunteer. He said: Not only do you have a brilliant son but he also has a heart of gold.
I apologize to anybody who has heard these stories already. Sometimes I need to tell them again.
I’ve Walked a Road
1
With eyes and bare feet on the blistered ground
A mound of scrap, dug down,
To meet my demons
I’ve walked a road.
This is a way few women have passed
The worst and the best
Combine all the rest
A mother’s fears put to the test
I’ve walked a road.
Thousands of ways people void each other
Lose the sun
A knife and a gun
The lucky one gets out in time.
Save our skins
Nobody wins
I’ve walked a road.
2
Glory and honor come in the mail
A blue and white ribbon
Adorned with a pin
That resembles a palm
But delivers no balm
To one who feels broken
His soul seared with horror
At what he has seen
What does it mean?
A son weeps
A mother keeps
A vigil of prayer
That her son will be saved
He has braved
The worst that mankind serves out.
I’ve walked this road.
3
Healing comes in round-about ways
All the clichés
A perch on a tree
Across from a park
Mark well
The Brooklyn Museum
And the beautiful flowers
Their powers
Invite his soul
To kick up its heels
And roll on the grass
With a red-haired lass
Lilies on the pond
Float meditating
Concentrating
On what life can hold
Fan out your colors
Quietly and with grace
My son’s won his race.
I’ve walked this road.
lgmwriting 