We Patch Up Walls

We have a violent life.

We have a beautiful life.

We patch up walls in our home.

We patch up ourselves.

We, his parents, have in many ways become walls;

my son’s living walls who shelter him from harm, which is why more times than we’d like to admit, we commit to patching ourselves up.

We throw Bandaids and Neosporin on the marks on our arms, legs, and faces.

We press bags of frozen peas on our eyebrows, noses and lips.

We repair our minds with gratitude to reverse the repetitive thoughts about the teeth he almost broke or the eye lens that he almost scratched.

We patch up the forlorn stings, pulses, and angst that are delivered from a child who can’t communicate what he needs and in doing so communicates that whether or not we, his parents, are hurting doesn’t matter to him. At least, for now.

For now.

We hurt.

We ache.

We recover.

This is the life that we chose.

The life of living walls.

Walls that are filled with love.

Walls that regenerate grace.

Walls that will keep patching up their exteriors.

Walls that will keep rebuilding themselves from within to help our children discover how to communicate their needs,

to live their best life.

We have a violent life.

We have a beautiful life.

We patch up walls.

Son,

the walls of our home and

we, your living walls,

will take on your frustration.

Keep teaching us,

reminding us

that we have much to learn,

much to understand about you.

Keep communicating to us the way you know how.

I promise we are listening intently.

We are journaling what you are telling us.

We are analyzing what you are telling us.

We are just trying to figure out how to interpret what you mean.

Son,

We are your living walls.

We will keep patching ourselves up.

Keep communicating.

We will learn to interpret.

We have a violent life.

We have a beautiful life.

We patch up walls.