Sharing a story,
recalling a significant
rite of passage
in my childhood,
Not one I chose
I might be so
reminded.
One day,
her glance
a twelve year old mind,
frightened by tragedy,
submission to God’s plan,
a confusion,
yet her eyes,
would tell me a story.
I then
and forever
touched
would struggle my means
would understand
only a criticism
I would believe
in my own heart,
only to find,
years upon years,
I would recognize
her heart to be pure
holding firm
a supportive glance
in a time of sadness.
Oh, today,
I did cry,
I felt a passion
to share, to allow
a soul
might know
my own choices
in a life
where all of my instincts
tested
at a very young age,
one OI would choose
to live again,
a parallel life perhaps
touched by
happiness.
© Thom Amundsen 2019