There’s a strain in growing up
no one discusses.
In my adolescence, it was my ignorance
in not knowing what to ask;
in my maturity, it was not allowing
my curiosity to interview you.
What was it like to hear Ms. Kuhlman preach the glorious Gospel?
How did you know you were first in love?
What was his name?
How did you heal your broken heart when you lost it?
What is like to hear God whisper?
What’s one thing you never told your parents?
What were your daughters like as children?
What is one prayer you never let go of?
What was it like for you the moment you became a mother?
Can you tell me what life was like when things were simpler?
In everything, how did you hold so tightly to your faith?
What is the greatest secret to your contentment?
Do you genuinely know the fruit of your persistent prayers?
Would you do it all over again?
And while these lost opportunities leave me
with so little to pass on to my children,
the real burden is not in the weight of regret
I hold onto within the questions
I never asked.
It is in the questions
I now have the opportunity to ask
but feel I can’t.
Do you not see your son could use some help?
Are you aware of the last time you simply asked, “How are you?”
Have you truly forgiven me for all my mistakes?
Is your discomfort not worth hearing the innocent laughter of your grandchildren?
Are my accomplishments insignificant in comparison to hers?
Do you wish you fought harder to keep me when I was a child?
I have come to find
the present unknown
is more damaging
than that which is locked away
for eternity.
Because while you’re still here
I’m reminded of what can be,
but isn’t.
Yet, with those that slumber,
there is solace in knowing
regardless of my effort,
it can never be.