They are glad, now, to have you to come to.
You are not whole to them.
You are arms that hug.
A voice answering and asking.
You are eyes seeking God in everything.
They are glad to know you are there.
And when they have gone,
They will look back and say,
She never worked a day in her life.
She never had to make money.
But they didn’t know you before.
Didn’t know you when
You preferred to sleep in your car
Rather than get a job. A job.
A job was death.
A job was a blunt instrument
At the back of the head.
A job.
But for now,
They are glad you’re here making their home, making beds
Making dinner,
Recording the stories
And the story beneath all the others.
The record of what is happening that leads
To what they will say happened.
And this is what you want to do.
Payment is invisible or barely visible.
Who cares what currency they value?
What do you value?
I value what I have found here
In the rubble of family life.
There is so much here to build with!
Beautiful mosaics from broken colors
Reflecting the faces of those
Previously hidden family members.
My path is made for me.