Ghosts and Mustard Seeds

After Susie Q’s “The Found Women”

I know their regrets—

the fatherhood fights,

the adoptive dad doubts,

the do-overs that ghost,

haunting. 

I know their sorrows,

the solitary shoulder

that once clutched

her quadriplegic body, 

twisted by cerebral palsy,

the child they cared for,

the little girl the grave stole.

Never dad-daughter dancing 

quinceañera dreams.

I know their silence,

the swallowed tongues,

the title fights with no winners,

battles crowned with casualties.

The tensions, snapping

brittle rubber bands.

I know their mustard seed moments,

quiet prayers barely uttered,

faith-bound, stumbling 

within valleys of shadows,

hours of silent sitting,

tender tears, torn apart.

I know their pure intentions—

the never-again,

the no-longer, 

the so-help-me.

Antidotes to terminal

illness, eating away

once healthy tissues, 

triggering survival issues.

I know their endurance,

resilience of bleary eyes, 

kept open by whys,

herculean love, rolling 

boulders daily, uphill, 

over and again.

Microscopic moments exploding 

into nuclear energy,

powering glimmers of maybe,

by joy, unexpected.