Beading and reading, beading and waiting,
Beading and walking, beading and talking.
780 six-foot long strings of tiny seed beads,
A thousand beads, a thousand lives, a strand.
Four years of the deaths of innocents
In the land where the prophets walked,
In the war-torn land where our bombs are dropped.
Younger hands string intricate patterns of color,
Beautiful in their sorrow, delicate in their misery.
My knobby fingers and older eyes are slower,
More time to meditate, more time to pray,
More time for my mind to picture the lives.
Always seeing the living, never the dead.
The skin the color of coffee laden with milk,
The way I like it.
The eyes, deep and dark, and green and haunting,
And blue as the sky used to be.
The skin, wrinkled and dry on the grandparents held dear,
Living under the same roof to keep them close,
To keep them safe.
The newborn at his mother’s breast,
Clutching and clinging,
Tiny dreams never to be explored.
The children, big brothers and sisters in families, large.
The girls dressed in cloth of many colors,
The boys, handsome and strong,
At play, knowing and unsuspecting, happy and fearful.
Each bead is a face, beautiful, unique,
A mind, unexplored,
A life never lived.
Some beads stick together, bonded, unseparate,
A mother with her unborn baby, her firstborn or fourth.
Beads slide off the string and cling together,
A family unwilling to loose their embrace,
Even in death.
Beading and waiting,
Waiting for the beads to end,
For the ashes to be swept,
The guilt to be washed away,
Waiting and beading.
Those who think that guns and money hold power,
Have never felt the weight of one tiny bead.
Ann Oliver Cothran