Within the confines of these walls there live five who look to me–who depend on me. The weight of assurance they rest on my shoulders, as if by some irrevocable decree I am and I know and I can and I will.
if not me, then who?
There is no room for doubt here, in our milk and honey home. In our promised land. Not when our days hum along to so peaceful a rhythm, uninterrupted.
My name is on a deed. On titles. On a checking account, printed tidily in the corner. On countless permission slips. On the t-ball snack sign-up sheet. Letters in a certain order that proclaim who I am. What I can do.
Between them, though, are the hairline fractures of a foundation unsteady. Through the cracks of capability lie the shadows of rage: memories of anger unleashed and run wild. Movies that flicker in my mind on a tattered reel of emotion. The scars of a war grown cold. From the outside looking in they shine like badges of honor, like medals that prove I was there. That those beaches of Normandy were no match for me. And from the inside looking out they are shinier still, polished and displayed and locked away–the key buried deep so as to break the cycle.
These are the truths that fall through the cracks.
So many stories. So many scars. All smoothed and worn and grown over by the forgiving vines of promise. The hope that the cycle of life might be broken, as the circle of it lives on.