I saw your son yesterday. Standing on the corner for a brief moment before he jaywalked in front of my car – blue jeans, t-shirt, flip flops stride wide cross the downtown Seattle thorofare, tall frame and wide shoulders, black hair, the curls all wild.
Beauty – I caught a glimpse of beauty beneath the emaciated form – the body torn down by a substance that owns him. Leads him – ring in nose – under the bridge to where he feels OK. To an army of ‘ease the pain’ worshipers who sacrifice themselves for a fix.
I saw your son yesterday, and yelled at God. “What does it take for you to touch a body and make it whole again? What if he’s too far gone to reach for You? Can’t you just take the voices in his head and hush them still so that the fix is not his only relief?”
I saw your son yesterday, as light turned green, I passed him by. Behind me, he and hundreds of other mother’s sons there to just make it through…
Another sleep it off.
Only to wake up needing more.
I saw your son yesterday, and asked God to be ‘The More’ for him, and all the mother’s sons with him.
The Quiet Voice low.
“…saw her son?
He’s my Son, too.”