Paul Meier reading

Wounded Holidays

by Alan Harris

Young, they left our homes. In a moment, long or quick, they were gone. Dewdrops turned into teardrops, the shining sea too small to hold our grief. "Give us our children back," we pled as we noticed their plateless places at the table. Regret made a river through our days, tempering laughter, pervading sudden silences. Bodies they had through us, with us-- bodies housing minds and souls-- no longer. The holiday season's return makes throb now the wounds we felt at their parting, wounds which may heal in time, we hope, into strength-- but not yet, in this season of snowflakes that sting and cookies that somehow taste of vinegar. "If only," goes our carol. If only they could return to us-- but no. If only we could speak with them-- but no. If only we could love them so intensely that they could feel our presence right now-- but yes, yes to this one, a thousand yesses-- they can. How can they not feel our love, being core in core with us, heart in heart? We give love this season to them and to each other as plundered parents and wounded healers. With love flowing, something in our lives-- a magnificent, mysterious Something-- guides us like a star.

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(Paul Meier)

(Alan Harris)