In the beginning there was a mother,
unnamed –
old now – herself almost a child
when one of her own
was taken in the beach house.

She read the sun-caught face
of her sweet, blond boy,
his always-gripping hands,
the unsung fear rising in his fidgeting fingers.
She couldn’t unsee the damage done.

Unnamed mother,
unsupported, unbelieved, not
undaunted, she wrote what she read
in the hands of her son
to each father of the church.

In her own hand she broke the silence
that had broken her. Pressed, licked, sealed.
Her hand hovered over the maildrop, until
that sunburned future bishop appeared at the window.
She mailed the truth and trembled.

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