There you are

- For Polly


There were eight of us. Once.
Now as I count
I have to touch a finger and say each name
because the math never seems quite right.
(Yes, you notice that too?)
Seven.

Heading to a gathering of longtime friends
that begins with a solo road trip.
Driving in the rain toward a promise of sunshine,
following a familiar route
while completely lost in thought.

Launched by a hug from my youngest
and a kiss from my guy.
(The dogs only looked up -
knowing the suitcase meant they weren't invited.)

Singing like you do when there is
no one there to listen.
Suddenly "Karla B's" voice fills the car,
silencing me with a melancholy tune
that carries so many memories -
goodbye my friend.

Making me wish the hugs promised
at the end of the day were here,
with me, now.

Truth nudges its way into my thoughts,
blurring the line between what was and what is.
Realizing that they are with me here,
in the memories and also in this moment.
In the tears and the laughter.
Embraced by a hug that doesn't let go.
(You know the kind.
We have a special name for it, don't we.)

Now, home again,
I think back on the weekend.
The gift of friendship
shared around a large wooden table
with one empty chair.

There were eight of us once.
And, really, there always will be.

Cast the first stone

Here's what I picture.
A man, Middle Eastern descent
squatting on the ground
surrounded by angry confusion.
Eyes focused downward,
drawing in the dirt with his finger.

Listening, taking it all in,
standing out by not participating
in the accusations.

A woman, accused of her sins,
already pummeled by judgement
while awaiting her fate.
No recourse. Alone with her fear.
A tear makes its way down her cheek.

Angry, righteous people,
so ready to judge this woman for her sin.
(Is there no accused man to stand with her?)
A growing crowd waiting, in anger,
in hate, in judgement
to give this woman what she deserves.

Which ends up being what she receives.

Words are spoken.
The stones are dropped,
striking the earth with muffled thuds,
obscuring a heart drawn with a finger
in the dust.

Forgiveness.

As I turn to walk away, I realize
there is something in my hand.
Judgement changes into personal conviction.

He stands up finally,
and looks into my eyes,
seeing my soul.

Who am I in this story?
I release the stone I am holding
along with the sins I try to hide.

Forgiven.