Arnel, from walking from an errand, stopped
to drop another errand and a book,
the gift that skipped the date because the bare
essential is remembering it’s there
not nowhere. Anywhere among the rife
constituencies of life being a wife.
Criselda is not only that, I learn
from her credential, very singular:
she loves. A sentiment that wasn’t meant
to be concealed, however shy to grow,
because it is at peace while it discerns
to distribute a heart and share its cheer.
The kind that emanates from confidence
that family is full and whole, complete
in opening its core – a welcome midst.
A rarity so scarce you can’t dismiss.
In journeying together they are blessed
in that they bless the others in their wake
with quiet piety in songs that praise
and serve the thirst for one another’s grace.
They shine. Their children, of a kindred mien,
describe what harmony does to a home
that it extends and occupies a space
they occupy and puts it on their face.
The face is ordinary as the sun,
you see it now and then; when day is done,
it rises as you set about to rest;
reminds of prayer you do not forget.
by Abraham de la Torre
