Together in a social setting,
my son by my side,
I stood with my accuser
and her castoff .
I swallowed hard and smiled.
No one likes awkward public situations.
No appreciates a public spectacle,
calling a spade a spade,
especially when the name-caller
is the accused,
assumed guilty until proven innocent.
So I swallowed hard and smiled.
I am compassionate at heart and
give others the benefit of the doubt,
but when old feelings are as plain
as words written on a page,
and the pot has been stirred
without provocation,
I cannot.
Still I swallowed hard and smiled
and held my fist tightly clenched by my side
so as not to cause a scene.
The jumble of emotions
crowding my heart
were almost too much.
Almost.
Embarrassment.
Anger.
Vulnerability.
Humiliation.
Abandonment.
Yet I swallowed hard, smiled, and
shoved my feelings into my festering gut
so I could turn and head toward the crosswalk
before the tears fell.
I am strong;
my shoulders can bear the weight of the world,
the weight of my children’s heavy hearts,
and mine,
but I cannot bear
false accusations,
indiligent due diligence,
fear disguised as indictment,
insecurity trumping my unwavering faithfulness,
others’ sins being seen as my own.
Still, I have swallowed hard and smiled,
talking about the weather, my garden, kids, work;
topics intended to afford us the patina of safety
until it was safe again.
Regrettably, oh so incredibly regrettably,
there seems to be dreadfully little safety here anymore.
The refuge, who once guarded the cave door,
so I could sleep is gone.
So I don’t sleep much anymore,
but I swallow hard and smile a lot.
~ Mk Michaels, 2015
