I've not written for a very long time. I say I'll start again, and then I don't.
This morning I saw a random picture. The caption said prom pictures - the picture an innocent looking girl. Something stirred as I looked at that picture in seconds, this is what poured out of me:
She is sixteen; she is a child.
She wears a satin dress.
She longs for love.
She holds her daddy’s hand as she did as a child in Brooklyn.
She walks with him as so many strolls in a park lined with trees.
She feels the exhilaration of a push on a swing that takes her high, higher than the sky.
She feels the fear of climbing to the top of the monkey bars.
She hears music – it reminds her of the tune announcing the Mr. Softee truck – a treat awaits.
She hears music – it reminds her of Salem where she learned about Jesus.
A future awaits her.
Someone has chosen her; she must finally be worthy. She is finally wanted.
Her daddy hands her to the boy at the end of aisle.
Unknowingly, he has handed her to more rejection and abuse.
Scars upon scars,
wounds that can’t heal,
voices of pain,