Caedmon Comma

My son,

They aren't all the same. At least, I don't think they are.

Sometimes they step out of your way.
Sometimes they steal your things.
Sometimes they look you in the eye.
Sometimes they reach out
and touch you
with an embrace
that you hope will never end.

I wish I could tell you that people are good and that people are trustworthy, but people are just as likely to be violent as they are likely to be caring. Sometimes the most loving are the most hateful. I just don't know.

I love it when you talk to me. You tell me about your passions and interests and I just want to leap with the joy of having a son like you.

But I don't.

I don't leap.

I don't even know how.

You hardly ever look me in the eye during these times. I suppose that is mostly my fault. I've unwittingly taught you not to. Shame is a suffocation that threatens our every chat. You are completely free of it. You have a boisterous joy that is wild, uninhibited.  I, however, overflow with its silent horror. And into the vacuum that is your joy, my shame floods and fills, and I look to the floor.

Dada, look at me

Our chats are always an exploration of that which separates us. I can hardly look at you. You are far too good and kind and far too ready to love. So, your eyes join me in staring everywhere - anywhere but at each other.

So, I don't know. I don't know what to tell you about people. Except that some people are like me - ignorant of the good and whole, mired in hatred and shame. But, some people can also be full of joy and peace and sacramental flame. Most people are both at once.

I can't look at you.
The shame of it -
What I have always sought
Is seeking me
and truth
I cannot give.


Dada