Helpless

On your first day of school

we drove by the building because

I ached to see that brick
still stood solidly on brick.

You, pigtails bobbing, walked

with other little ones,

looking for nature in the playground.

Seeing our car, you pointed and waved.

So much for furtive parenting.

What would have I done that day

if something had been wrong?

Would I have thrown myself across

your small frame, protecting, sheltering?

Of course.

Baby experts warn that what

wears down a parent is the

exhaustion, that bone weary

tiredness that never dissipates even

when your little one sleeps all night.

But I disagree. What really crushes

a parent’s heart is the helplessness;

it is all that you cannot fix

or mend

or kiss away.

What would I have done when

you walked away, so scared and alone?

Would I have borne your burden,

carried your pain?

Of course.

But I am helpless to do what I wish I could.

All I can do is watch and wait and love.

Mary must have keened with grief

watching her son die.

Any mother would.

Maybe it’s blasphemy, but

I imagine God felt that too.

Helpless with agony as his child

bore such pain.

It is comfort to believe

that God and I feel the same.

Helpless.