When I saw the picture of the parking lot, I started thinking about my sister’s homecoming and how joyous that was… but then I remembered how many people over the decades have taken their sons and now daughters to parking lots and watched them climb on buses to go to serve their country rather than disembarking from camp or vacation.
And then prayed like heaven, because certainly not like hell — perhaps through hell — that their children would come back to them.
It’s interesting to me how the metaphor can deepen as I’m writing. I had my 14 lines about my celebration… At some point in the midst of writing, it turned and offered me another glimpse. It’s always surprising… Perhaps I’m not an experienced enough poetry wrangler, and I should be better at staying with the vision. Or perhaps that’s just the nature of poetry and the nature of Peace.
Both can be pretty, but both are so much more than that. They are always potentially more raw, more honest than pretty. So it seems, at least to me, are parking lots.
Holding the pen is an interesting privilege. I hope I always wield it for Peace.
