Unnamed in the Story

Then Jesus told them yet another story: “Once a man had two sons…” - Luke 15:11-31

The kitchen window framed the scene—
the proud posturing, the wild gesturing.
And I, with linen towel twisting
between fretting fingers, watched
as a broken boy extended his hand,
demanding honor from kindness.

For six years, I coursed my days
and minded my worries at the window,
eyes straining down an empty road,
prayer pouring from mourning lips.

In the evenings, I despaired as I watched
rough lips mouth unanswered prayers,
and low shoulders—burdened
beneath sorrow—undress in tallow light.
And I lie beside him in silent lament—
unnamed in the story but hand-in-hand
with his hurt, sitting shiva with kindness.

Each morning, I rose with the dawn,
picked limp dreams from the counter,
and kept watch at the window.
Washing, praying.
Drying, praying.

When at last our earnest prayers were answered
and our lost son’s shape rose on the road,
I abandoned my post at the window.
Eyes straining to meet his.
Joy pouring from praising lips.
I clutched my miracle on the stoop
and then busied myself with preparations.
But as the celebration swelled, the sun sank
and a new agony dawned in another son.

The kitchen window framed the scene—
the proud posturing, the wild gesturing.
And I, with linen towel twisting
between fretting fingers, watched
as a broken boy pointed his finger,
resenting kindness from honor.