I thought, “What can I do?” when I hear a child upon separation. You see, I know what it is like to an extent, only it was me that cried out in a voice I did not recognize as my own. I cannot listen to the videos of the children of immigrants for long without being triggered due to witnessing the light leave my daughter’s eyes. But I do know what it is to be separated from your child. As I wrote after Corrie graduated to heaven, I did not know what to do …
so I write.
Thunderstorm
Darling, come to me
as the clouds gather.
Be unafraid to view the sky. It wants you
to look away from the doom and gray.
Hold tight and fear not, for the shades
of bars on windows,
city streets slick
after rain, and
the slate-snow after
tires and dirt blend it
color clouds that
want you to cry.
The first thuds of thunder blare,
as you hold the screen door open
and stare at the sky. Yes, I know,
Little One, those who hope
for storms say, “but look you, who
complain of storms. We need
the rain.” Yes, darling, I know you
love the rain. You grab your boots,
and put on your red Christmas
coat with the black buttons to
sing to the skies and dance in
the puddles. No rain will come
with this thunderstorm.
The thunder shreds the sounds
of bees on lavender, beebalm,
and flowers on trees. All the sudden,
the buzzing ends, and the winds
begin. Darling, we must go
in the house. The wind picks up,
and knocks the plant pots
off the porch built for a time
when people sat on porches
listening to birdsong, but
the cardinals go quiet
with the rumble of thunder.
Come away from the door, Little
One. Lightning strikes the dogwood,
and they say you must stand
away from the windows. Now is
the time to come inside. It does not
mean that we will never hear the rain.
It does not mean that your boots will
never splash in the puddles again.
Voices swell upon the sky as the
clouds billow in shades of smoke,
and the clothes characters wear
in an underground city where
they know of armies, but never
feel the light of rainbows after rain.
The rumbles remind me of a ballad
fans want to scream during a
concert instead of swaying
side-to-side.
Voices or whistles? Who’s to say
If people speak, scream, or if the
wind takes possession of all the
whimpers and wails. The skies
darken into galaxies of gray, and
I squeeze your hand, as we hold to
the post and refuse to cry
because the deluge comes not
in this doom and gray. The skies
beckon a mist from our eyes.
“Darling, fear not—” I say as the
the wind howls and sweeps you away.
The screams of a child,
“Mommae, mommy, mama,
mami” whistle upon the wind.
It’s not just mine who is gone,
and with the children, the pots
fall off the garden wall. I drop to my
knees, and scream to the sky.
How stupid was I to fail to
take her inside, and the tears I had
refused before baptize the earth
in the thunderstorm without a
drop for the ground.
But someone says, “We need the
storms. This is what we asked of
the skies.” But, they forget the
rain fails to come this time.
~ R.A. Bridges
Corrie's Season 