Dozens of children called up to show
Their answer to the question:
“What does your family look like?”
With mums and dads and siblings galore
Some from far flung across the globe
Others conceived in the same womb side by side
Smiley faces
With arms open wide
Stood by trees
And houses
Dogs in tow
Grandmas in the back
All saying the same thing:
“This is my family, whom I love.”
Amidst arguments and tantrums,
play fights and the real,
forced meals at the table,
laundry lining the hallways,
dishwasher on repeat,
and angry music vibrating floorboards,
There can still be love.
The time I wrestled him up,
‘Sharpshooter’ strain to pee.
Three months grounding,
for late night sojourn.
Sangria driven buggy,
meanders through Tenerife streets.
Accidental stumble,
onto nudist beach.
Late night jokes,
watching Madea.
Despite mother’s hand shielding from camera,
moments between us still beautifully captured:
“This is my family, whom I love”
Politicians argue
over civilisation’s demise
Homeless & runaways
Prisons overflowing
Abuse and violence
Rape and suicide
Addictions extensive
And remedies are sought
But the source isn’t prevented
The brokenness of our land’s foundation
Houses constructed on sand
ignored.
From the windows young faces
Peer from tattered curtains
Tear-stained eyes
because they could not
and cannot say:
“This is my family, whom I love”
Above the water
And the land
the crowning of creation
“it is good”
we as people
heart and bones
two flesh become one
establishing a legacy
for days to come.
Eternal vows
broken in a brief minute.
Promises shattered,
single eyes cry,
over bulging bumps
isolated grief.
“Where is my family, who I love?”
The cry of too many.
Do you have room
at your table
to feed the family-less?
When they need not just
the edible food prepared
But the restoration
And nourishment
and their hearts?
