“I don’t know.”
A non answer weakly dispersed from his mouth after minutes of pursed lipped wonder.
One of many simple questions laid to rest under his crossed arms.
Ten white knuckles throbbing, two fists hang by his hips.
I thought to myself, “I don’t know either.”
I don’t know why he came under the crossed arms of his parents.
I don't know why they put a hole in the wall with his head.
I don't know why sex was so polluted for him.
I don’t know why they let him fend for himself.
and I don’t know why our arms are thrown up and leaving him to fend for himself.
I don’t know why he can’t ask or consider help.
I don’t know why the base instincts are intact and the self control unweaves all the time.
I don’t know why neuron highways are littered with trash and bridges are out and dyslexic signs confuse and diffuse any semblance of order.
I just don’t know. Though I welcome mystery often, this mystery I would rather not know. I would rather answer the question positively…”I know.”
Is there a way to reach in and put things back in order for him?
Is there time to protect what seems to be inevitable?
Can I put on a big red S and blue tights and white out some of the history?
Can I say underlined “Only nothing is impossible” like Clark Kent said.
So now he enters the ark alone. No family. No friends. No thing.
He just called and wanted to come home.
Only fourteen hours ago he spewed disrespect and denounced this family…
And now he wants to come home.
What kind of a home is he looking for?
A home that succumbs to his narcissism?
A family that plays into his manipulation?
A place which honors lies?
How far does love go with a broken soul?
Love is patient but…
Love is kind but…
Love never fails…but…
I don’t know.