There’s a Peace Sign in Your Heart
By Niall Twohig
Dear Aislynn,
You just attacked me with a Bluey toy, of all things.
You were disappointed because I told you to wear a diaper to bed.
You think you’re ready to let it go. I worry you’re not.
Plus, I just washed the bedsheets.
You frown seeing my doubt.
Your brow tightens.
Rigid in that spot where your grandda was rigid.
Rigid where I’m rigid.
I block your strike.
(Remember: There’s a time and place for self-defense.)
You wind up for strike two.
“Stop!” I catch your little fist.
“Look, Look!” I say lifting you eye to eye.
We have to talk.
But you’ll have none of it.
You squirm. You thrash. You gnash.
“Ok. I’m going to return those mermaid shirts!”
Taking things away, that newest favorite thing.
I gotta stop using this strategy. But it works.
Peace by whatever peaceful means necessary.
But what to say in this awkward eye-to-eye moment?
We improvise:
“You know the peace sign down the block?”
“mm-hmm.”
“You know how it lights up at night.”
“mm-hmm.”
“Well, there’s a peace sign in your heart.
Violence makes its light dim.
Love makes it glow bright.
What do you want: the dim or glowing light?”
“Glowing!”
“Ok, so act with Love.”
“Like this,” you say laying on a goodnight kiss.
Mm-hmm. Like that.
* * *
At bedtime prayer,
You pray for those who passed.
Your mama and I list their names:
Grandda, Lola Linda, Brian, Tito Dominic, Aunty Melanie, Randy’s dad.
We’ve always told you: they’re in your heart.
Tonight, I tell you—
when your heart glows, they feel it.
And, when it dims, they’ll send you Light.
* * *
At bedtime prayer,
I ask you to pray for a student and her mama.
I ran into them in People’s.
I was tired, running errands on autopilot,
But they pulled me, through my senses,
back to Soul.
I’m glad.
I wanted to meet her mom,
to tell her how grateful I am—
for her daughter’s light,
for the journey that lit it,
for the way she shares it.
And here I was, given that chance.
Given the blessing.
Blessing!
I’m fine with that word.
Finer than I’ve ever been.
It was a blessing.
One I felt myself fumbling
as I stumbled over my words.
I couldn’t say it right,
I couldn’t give them…
give them what?
I was not the giver.
They gave me light,
Light that filled this empty errand-runner.
Light to write these words to you, now,
when I thought it too dark to write.
Mother and daughter—
they are the blessing.
Their hearts glow,
bright as the Moroccan Sun.
Light that
cuts through
the murk of this society.
Light that
cuts through
darkened corridors that keep us from seeing each other,
from sharing laughs and tears over mint tea, from embracing.
Light that
cuts through
their cloud of not knowing.
Wherever you are, Aislynn, whenever you read this—
please keep them in your prayers.
I have faith that wherever they are,
they’ll feel your light.
And, whenever you dim,
they’ll fill you with their Sun.