I am certain,
Someday when I rock a chair with my weathered skin, my worn out body,
that I will rock to the rhythm of these days.
That old chair, will click with the memories of bare feet on these plank floors,
the steady and predicted tick of irrigation running,
the anticipated sun on their eyelids as it rises over us,
the ebb and flow of the waves on all the lakes we have sat beside this summer.
All these memories will rock me to sleep, help me keep the peace.
But there is something else in me too;
I am terrified of these luxurious days.
In a world where bombs fall on schools and hemorrhagic fevers rage;
Where planes just fall from the sky and vanish,
is it still okay to spend an entire afternoon searching for the perfect swimming hole?
Am I part robot, all callous, if I can’t read another article about Syria but instead
I don’t know.
I make an offering of the huckleberries we picked.
A ceremony of the found fruits I hold and wash.
I celebrate the things that seem whole in a world so dreadfully broken.
Each one is a prayer for my friends in the midst of the rage.
To begin, I make all the peace I can.