hollow moments

A moment of true sincerity happened today. In the supreme hustle and bustle of job to home Olympics, A young child No taller then the hip of my pants, stopping me to ask a question. With the happiest of intentions I leaned forward, plotting the stance. And with his little blue eyes of ocean waves And sand castle dreams, He inclined as if he were years of older moons. Coming closer with wonder He asked if I knew, What the face of a hero would look like? With a closed throat moment, I hesitated the idea. I waited timelsessly For the answer he was waiting for, Not the answer I was about to give him. No movements were made, The streets madness was silent with intrigue, As I faltered with the question. And, As if to pull it from the sacred Earth itself, He raised a black and white, 8x10 photograph of a young NYC firefighter. He was holding a baby boy. Smiling brighter than the sun itself. Then in my most venerable moment, He asked yet another question Which I couldn’t possibly answer. He asked me if his fathers face, Reminded me of a that of a hero. And I’ve been crying like a fatherless child, Ever since. Written January 31st, 2002 © on Jan 31 2002 09:18 AM PST   0 • 1