Compassion

Compassion
You are five.
Training wheels are off your newly polished bike.
You take it out for a spin,
Swerve around the first corner.
Asphalt covers your face.
Blood on your knees.
The ground came to fast for you to catch yourself.
Then there’s a face:
Smile lines,
Creases in the forehead,
Dimple on the left cheek.
His name is compassion.
He is slender,
Smooth with words
And a heart as big as the river of tears flowing from your eyes.
He looks at the damage.
You see the twinkle in his eyes
As he gently picks you up.
Your head is searing with pain,
But his graceful steps almost put you in a trance.
Through the one eye that is open
You see your bright blue house.
The door opens, and then closes.
Your cuts are lightly bandaged,
And with that, the man is gone.
Even though you never see this particular man again,
You see his marks everywhere:
The look a mother gives her hungry newborn baby.
The touch of a loved one to a widow.
The soothing words on the radio as you slowly fall asleep.
You even start to look like him.
The smile lines forming on your growing face.
Your laugh that rings throughout the entire room.
The creases in your forehead come later,
When you have children of your own.
Your tender tone and loving words
Make the two-toothed baby in your arms giggle.
After a long day you will look in the mirror
And see the man you once saw years before:
Compassion.
By: Rebekah Rose Archambeault