They had their choice of colors,
a rainbow assortment of finessed expression
from which to choose, but in haste they grabbed,
all of them at once, for the fat permanent marker
with which to label her exhibit ‘X’
and then they shut the doors
with a smile, turned inward
and never spoke another
word to her or her child,

who began to paint steepled churches and
angular hearts in black, saying for a time that
he thought neither was like God, “because God
is love and those people were nothing
like God because they made us
go away.” And it didn’t matter
to him – the technicality that
it was she they’d wanted
gone, not him.

She thought she’d lost him then.
She wasn’t sure how to help him understand
that God is love, that God does not equal church,
that people are good, that love always finds
a way. All she wanted for him was
all she’d wanted for herself,
to be safe, to have a home,
to be treasured, cherished
for who she was.

Those years run together, like
the grey fog that closed in upon them out of
nowhere and for “no good reason” as he used
to shout at her, not knowing where else
to take his pain. Just when fine thread
of memory that bound them
to remembrance of sun
seemed sure to slip
away forever, he

came to her. Five years old, with the heart
of wounded lion, he thrust a piece of paper
toward her and said, “God is love, and
you love me like God, so I made this
for you.” There, she was in outline,
familiar black save one exception;
he’d drawn a halo above
her head and colored it,
remarkably,

with every color in the crayon box. A tear fell.
The boy looked up, uncertain. She said, “It’s
beautiful. You are so full of God’s love, too!”
he smiled a smile as wide and warm
as an August sun. “But, Mom,”
he said, “angels don’t cry.”
She laughed, wiped her tear
and thought she’d never
felt so cherished.