a lost soul can be retrieved

It was all quite sterile and white when he was born.

Gowns, masks, gloves, lights, walls, shiny instruments.

Poking, prodding, pronounced healthy.

Bottles and rubber nipples, formula.

No breast for you, kid.

Slowly the soul sank.

Awkward arms, held far from the body.

Home, only two needs on the strict schedule –

Diaper or feeding time

Carefully regulated. Cry until then.

You’re on your own, kid.

Slowly the soul sank.

Crib in a dark room,

Sleeping bag tethered

Can’t sit up

Choking

Choking

Mucus

Gagging

I can’t breathe!

Terror. Wailing.

There’s a party outside

Mingling, laughing, cocktail glasses clinking

Deep conversations –

Is analysis worthwhile?

Is the theater dead?

Have you met the new maestro?

Terror. Wailing.

Door opens. Saved at last.

Singsong voice

Quick check.

Not wet.

Not feeding time.

“You’re fine.”

Mother’s gone.

Terror. Alone.

The soul sinks more deeply

Leaving but a shell, a

Persona trained to act properly –

Set a formal table

Use the correct spoon for the sorbet

That’s a white wine glass

We’re serving a roast

Get the red wine glasses

Speak when spoken to

Yes, ma’am; no, sir

Please pass the salt and pepper after you’re finished with them

Another roll, perhaps?

Sit up straight

Clear the table while father lights his pipe

And the soul sinks

Good student, all A’s

Fight the draft

Apply to colleges

And so it goes

Moves and careers

Children and grandchildren

And so it goes

From generation to generation

The walking dead.

One day, he was swimming in the ocean in about 30-feet of clear blue tropical water alongside a line of pilings that once held a long dock. He dipped his dive-masked face under the surface and saw her – a tiny child suspended some 15-feet below. She appeared to be about 2-years-old, her arms encased in water-wings, some sort of flotation device over her.

He dove down, grasped her in his arms and surfaced. She smiled. He felt her warm against his chest. A glow within.

When he released her, she sank again. Again, he dove. Again, they surfaced. Again, she smiled. Three times.

I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Holding her close, he swam further out to three steely men. Asking for help. Ignored.

He turned and swam in toward shore and they found themselves – man and child – in a large meeting room teaming with people. She clung to his neck, adoring, safe.

Three older women – sages – explain that the child is lost, abandoned, separated from her family, torn apart by ICE. They want to help but can only volunteer a bit of time each week.

He spots his spouse and, babe in arms, crosses the room to ask her if she’d agree to adopt the little girl whose water-wings are inscribed with the words, “Certified Deep Swimmer.”

That was where she lived ever since, ripped from breast and nurture, she sank.

He knew his spouse would be delighted to adopt her.

After all, his spouse had always wanted a fully alive mate.

They named her Psyché, pronounced “C-K”

The tiny little girl fell softly to sleep, content,

warm, retrieved safely into an open heart.

He looked at God and God smiled.