Unnamed in the Story

Then Jesus told them yet another story: “Once a man had two sons…”

LUKE 15:11-31

The kitchen window
framed the scene—
the proud posturing,
the wild gesturing.
And I, with linen towel twisting
between fretting fingers, watched
as a broken boy extended his hand,
demanding honor from Kindness.

For six years, I coursed my days
and minded my worries
at the window, eyes straining
down an empty road,
prayer pouring from mourning lips.

In the evenings, I despaired
as low shoulders—burdened
beneath sorrow—undressed
in tallow light, and rough lips
mouthed unanswered prayers.
While I, unnamed in the story,
lay beside him, hand-in-hand,
sitting shiva with Kindness.

Each morning, I rose with the dawn,
picked limp dreams from the counter,
and kept watch at the window.
Washing, praying. Drying, praying.

When at last our earnest prayers
were answered and our lost son’s
shape rose on the road, I abandoned
my post at the window.
Eyes straining to meet his.
Joy pouring from praising lips.

I clutched my miracle on the stoop
and then busied myself
with preparations. But
as the celebration swelled,
the sun sank and a new agony
dawned in another son.

The kitchen window
framed the scene—
the proud posturing,
the wild gesturing.
And I, with linen towel twisting
between fretting fingers, watched
as a broken boy pointed his finger,
resenting kindness from Honor.