I don’t know who said you couldn’t, but they were dead wrong.
You could be death wish over a toilet, a flagrant sinner over a credit card, a Pharisee over a pulpit, and it doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter a hill of beans.
And it’s a hill I’d die on, because that’s exactly why a Carpenter really did:
Whoever you are, wherever you’ve been, whatever you’ve done and whatever story you own — you can always come home again.
Waiting at the gate, looking for him, it’s why I’m thinking about a bone marrow transplant —
so he knows the truth of that right in the center of his bones too.
I keep craning the neck every time that automatic door slides open, looking for those blue eyes of his behind ever swollen suitcase.
Watch the arriving flights blink up on the screen.
Heart ballooning joy when I see that the Indonesian flight via Seoul flight had landed and he’s here.
He’s somewhere in the building.
It’s like labor and delivery all over again and I just need a door to open up so I can behold his face.
Why hadn’t someone told me that a mother’s labor and delivery never ends and you never stop having to remember to breathe?
He should be at baggage claim by now. Did the father of the Prodigal son, did his neck strain like this?
What if a son comes home with no news that any father wants to know?