Mending

Tears cascading from my eyes like blood running from an open wound the wound that is ever present in my heart unable to be soothed or mended by anyone other than the man that made it The hands that could have fixed anything the largest impression on my back frozen forever in the stillness of death penetrating my mind daily The “what if” that lingers there sitting in the dark, taking up space until the smallest trigger releases the inevitable emotions of my inner most being Standing alone in the congregation, the tears drop one-by-one landing with the ever quiet plop on the pew beneath me A hand outstretched One I used to know so well, yet not blemished by years of unceasing hard labor The attempt, though unsuccessful, tries to mend the open wound Over time it begins to heal, slowly the fibers of my inner most being begin to bond together as my hand encloses this unfamiliar familiarity