My Child Comma
My Child,
I don't remember a lot of things. I don't even remember the day I was born and I don't remember the sounds that filled the time in my mother's womb. I wonder if there was a voice that spoke in that womb, a voice that I have forgotten.
Soon. Soon you will arrive here in this world full of want. We, the people all want so much. So we pray. We ask some mysterious illusive notion for much but not as much as you would think. Mostly we ask for a momentary relief from these troubles.
Your father has often gone petitioning to this god. When I was not much older than you, I would fall to sleep looking out the window at the stars and talking to a god, talking to a god who listened and listened night after night.
The nights turned to weeks and years and I needed him to hear me less and less. As I grew older I started needing him to speak. I needed him to answer my questions and my wantings. And so he spoke... several times he has spoke to me of late. And every time that he has spoken to me, he has told me that he loves me. That is all I have heard from him, that he loves me and loves me and loves me and loves me and loves me...
He has never answered my questions. Is he hiding something or is his love so urgent? Is it so difficult to break through my petitioning that he can only speak the most potent message from a distance?
I pray so rarely now.
I know, my child, I know this god is good. I know so little about this god but I know that he is good. So, listen to him while he speaks, and speak to him while he listens. And teach us about such rhythm and sound.
Can you hear him now? In the midst of the rhythmic beats of your mothers heart do you hear the voice that we, the people, have forgotten?
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