You found it on the beach, at surf's edge.
I can picture you bending to pick it up,
Toes splayed in the wet sand.
A perfect white stone, beautiful.
Sea carved and shaped like Madonna and her son.
Mary cradling her child close to her chest.
You were so proud of it.
You built that box to hold it.
Bragging about it as if it were evidence
Of your spiritual superiority
Meanwhile your youngest daughter,
And I, your greek son went our broken ways
And you would not help us.
You placed your last chance for redemption upon a shelf.
I wish that Spirit had stopped your breath
Rather than give you this last beautiful chance
Before you harmed my daughter.
But I am awed
That we are all of us
Offered so much grace.
As you lay dying
Tormented by guilt, confusion, pain.
You told your wife in your delirium
"I am a homosexual alcoholic and deserve to die"
These things may have troubled you,
Been your closeted secrets,
But they were not your sins.
You died without once admitting
That you raped us
That you broke the trust of those you sat with.
That you poured secret Hate upon the small and the vulnerable.
You died badly.
With neither Truth nor Beauty
You asked for no forgiveness
So you recieved none.
But even you could not destroy the beauty of Spirit.
Of Truth and of new chances.
You cannot destroy Hope.
You can not.
