Innocence

Often I sit . . . perplexed by the thoughts spinning through the wheels of my mind. 

Whispering quietly in my ear, each notion longs for attention. 

But like a ghost crossing the room, clarity appears and then vanishes into the darkness, 

Leaving me alone once again. 

I sit and stare into the darkness, and it is my turn to whisper . . . my turn to express . . . my turn to be heard. 

I talk to myself . . . to God . . . to no one . . . and to everyone. 

I speak each word with the enthusiasm used when speaking to an audience . . . 

Staring into the faces in the darkness, I know I am being heard. 

I sit and contemplate each word . . . 

Critiquing each syllable and challenging each statement . . . 

I am my most daunting audience . . . 

then I remember innocence, and tears run down my face.

I am confused about this world. 

It screams at me to base my decisions and my beliefs on the tangible facts 

Laid so carefully on this table in front of me . . . 

This table so many refer to as life. 

The world tugs at our sleeves, begging us to live for the moment . . . 

For ourselves. 

My mind works against me . . . 

Trying to pull drapes over my eyes to shield me from the pain surrounding me. 

But how can I forget innocence? 

I remember innocence, and tears run down my face.

The face of a small child . . . 

So carefully etched upon my mind. 

I held his hand and looked into his young eyes. 

Tears formed as he felt the pain of a needle being inserted into his vein. 

His eyes looked deep into mine . . . searching for strength . . . 

So trusting . . . his small hand gripped my fingers. 

In my mind, I knew he would be fine . . . 

He would fall asleep . . . we would perform the task before us . . . 

And he would wake to be with his mother again soon.

I looked at him with a smile and whispered,

"Don't worry, everything will be fine."

Little did I know, my words were deemed to be the last he would hear on this world.

He drifted off to sleep,

His body relaxed,

But then the Unexpected,

His heart suddenly stood still . . . 

Time, as if out of respect, did the same . . . 

I too . . . I do not know exactly why . . . stood still. 

Despite attempts to save him,

His life slipped away.

I watched as his figure was engulfed in a cloud of white sheets . . . 

The world, too ashamed to look upon death. 

I remember innocence, and tears run down my face.

The face of a young mother . . . so carefully etched upon my mind. 

Her crumpled weeping form . . . her son’s body, empty of life. 

Who am I to be the one to bear the news of her son’s death? 

Who is the world to tear the life from innocence? 

Not one life lost, but two . . . the son’s and the mother’s . . . 

For her son was her life. 

The discomforting site of a lifeless body . . . 

The tormenting site of the ones who lived on . . . 

Their faces searching for strength. 

I am reminded of innocence, and tears run down my face.

The face of a strong father . . . so carefully etched upon my mind. 

His ruff hands, strong from the years of hard work . . . 

And yet so gentle when cradling her face to his chest. 

His body strong and supporting . . . his eyes pleading for help. 

His son’s body . . . once so vibrant and colorful . . . 

Now so lifeless and cold. 

The child he so carefully raised . . . 

He so fervently provided for . . . 

He so deeply loved . . . 

Ripped away from him in one fleeting moment. 

Who am I to feel loss? 

I have lost nothing so precious. 

I look upon myself with disdain . . . 

And then I remember innocence, and tears run down my face.

I remember the face of a small child . . . the face of a young mother . . . the face of a strong father . . . and I remember innocence . . . and tears run down my face.