sobbing side-by-side

i can't shake the image in my head of him, running with hot tears streaming down his cheeks, fervently searching for signs-- just one sign-- one fucking sign, of his mother somewhere lost on a sandy shore. his hands shake, his stomach and chest hollow and twist, as he trembles uncontrollably beneath a pier, fighting the thought of her dead. i can't remove the still of him suddenly relapsing back into a child, running with skinned knees, scraping, screaming, crying out for her.

i wish i could've hugged him longer and somehow let myself absorb some the confusion and pain he's already drenched in. for far too long.

he may not be aware of it, but I collect all his stories for the precious gems that they are; the man that almost kidnapped him as a child, his radial bone that healed incorrectly, the math homework that ruined any semblance of a father-figure in his life. in the midist of all our sobbing he recalls his most favorite memory of her (a beautiful garden in morning rain, walking together under the serenity of an umbrella) and I practically cave in.

...

I find myself praying before going to bed, again. Regardless of all those Richard Dawkins books I've been sifting through lately, nothing can replace the consolation of knowing someone's thoughts are always at your side, waiting to be reached, waiting to remedy.