threads

I didn’t know I had a rope tied around her ankle, but I’ve cut it now.

(Or perhaps it’s been cut by hands stronger than mine)

And those handcuffs, how did they get there? 

I have a whole box of them, 

they dispense easily like tissues and I find myself putting them on my children, 

snapping them in place, pulling them close to me

as if they could hold against the season of letting go,

They are dollar store handcuffs; 

they don’t really hold. 

I see her break them, and I consent. 

But wait, there’s more! 

Under the rope and the handcuffs 

and the grasping control and the desperate attachment, 

there’s more;

fine threads, 

fragile little connections between mother and daughter

millions of them, like spiderwebs

they’re shaped like boxes of keepsakes,

writer-downers,

trips to Narnia together,

and deep mutual desires for the other to be well and safe and happy

See, Lord, these threads, do they get to stay attached even now?

He smiles, points to others attached to me

and I see long, older threads from my own heart, 

going back to my own mom

and dad and sister, 

Michigan roots

unbroken, still coursing with life and love

These are not strong enough to grab control

these fine strands of heart connection

They are resilient;

they span distance and time;

bridges extending without breaking

Lord, see this joyful stretching ache

and be near us as you expand and grow our lives;

as you rearrange and intertwine our loves;

according to your will.