Unable to undo or reverse the destruction,
I focus on the children I’m charged with.
Hey kids, I say, come sit with me.
I cannot hide that I have been weeping.
They have been fighting, all morning,
as children will, calling each other names
such as “stupid” and “jerk.”
They’ve been refusing to share,
asserting how right they are.
It starts here, I say. Peace begins with the way
that we treat our family and friends.
They are embarrassed by my tears.
My daughter sits on my lap, but looks away.
Stop it, Mom, she says. She slouches
and curls her thin back into my belly.
My son says nothing, then belches
to lighten the mood. I am too sincere.
I almost wish to laugh at myself,
to laugh at him, but instead,
I feel the warm weight of new tears
as they gather before they fall.
The boy beside me, their friend,
takes a big breath, then nods.
I know what you mean, he says.
One of them could have the hand
that pulls the trigger, I think.
One of them could feel righteous
enough to drive a truck into a crowd.
One of them might find the words
I cannot find, the ones that could change
someone else’s set mind,
the words that might turn us toward peace.