for my grandson, Ezra
A monk in a hairshirt is no surprise,
but how much more on a three-year-old
who in a moment of love for his nenna
secreted a bracelet in his slipper, from
his day care center as gift for her and
trod upon for a whole day. Did the plastic
beads dig into his tender foot? Did the five
little piggies squeal and ouch? The answer
lost in that day’s history is found
in the bracelet itself, hung over the sink
in his nenna’s kitchen where she washes
dishes beneath the glow of the pink halo
hanging there. Beyond penance, beyond
pain, this bit of chosen love shines forever.
Love this poem. Love this boy.
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Me too.
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oh my!!! beautiful…just beautiful!
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