by Wendy Shywalker

As she balanced on the edge of the roof;
between life and death, sanity and madness.
I could see all her dreams and passions ending
in the blink of an eye.
She had reached the end of her strength. the last
of it depleted with the loss of her child and the ache
of her empty arms.
I needed to find the words to bring her back.
Back from the brink, to the fresh air of hope.
But instead, I watched in awe as he stepped forward.
Talking, entreating with gentle words and gestures.
He spoke of a lost child. A child that had been his for
only a short time, then that child was lost to him.
I listened as he spoke to her of the love he had carried
for this lost child.
He spoke of his searchings and wanderings, and
how he had never lost that one thing that kept him going: Hope.
The hope he would find that child again. The essence, the being
that was his son. He spoke of his joy at finding his child alive.
He spoke of the celebration of that reunion.
As the hope he spoke of spread to her heart, she moved from
the edge of despair and took a step toward faith.
Faith in a stranger, who's heart gave her renewed strength that
the void in her arms would be filled.
As I watched that man that day, as I listened to his words of
hope, my heart overflowed with love for this man.
This man,
this angel on earth,
who, it seemed was heaven sent.
This man,
my father,
thats my Pop