The Hope Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and Me
What is hope but that which makes the hard days bearable, and, moreso, worthwhile.
“Keep the faith,” I say to myself.
Faith: the confidence of that for which we hope /
The expectation of Light beyond the dark and smoke.
Parenting is not a black and white thing. And while I guess I knew that,
I did not realize its ambiguity could hurt so badly.
In explicit English, please, what does all this mean:
Do no harm.
Honor this born person.
Nurture his soul.
Train him up in the way he should go.
All of this and so much more.
And how should I presume? And how should I begin?
And maybe of more consequence, how will it all end?
How do I get from here to there?
From infant babe to man, grown with hair—
and not just grown in stature.
No, grown in heart, in things that matter.
There is perhaps nothing quite so cruel in parenting your child than with other parents in the same room. Your child and his behavior enters into a sort of Gray, and as you consider whether or not this sort of thing is okay, another ascertains, “This is not how we behave.”
Do I dare disturb the universe?
“My,” I say, “ You said that so very forcefully, and, ma’am,
I do not know that I agree. I do not know that I agree. I do not know. . .”
And how do I presume?
Well, naturally, I am the worst mother of them all— of them all.
I need Lazarus back from the dead, here to tell me all.
But he is not. And how do I presume?
I measure out Motherhood with coffee spoons. I know the other mothers’ whispers dying with a dying fall. I have heard that pretentious mother snicker. And in short, I was uncertain.
Have I mangled my parenting days?
Two very different parents, are we
With two very different offspring
Truly as different as different can be
So how can you presume?
And how can I compare? How could I dare?
And upon what scale would I dare to grade another? Or even deftly use to judge myself a just or unjust mother?
Perhaps it is all just vanity. . . a chasing after the wind. . .
I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed.
Ate the leftovers off the abandoned plate
And seen my pride crushed and served upon a platter
Yet these are my children’s souls, and therefore an eternal matter.
I know it is worthwhile after all,
after all
One day I’ll hold my grandchildren in a hall
with family pictures on the wall
I’ll see my face in the faces that I meet
There I will stop to think and meditate
on all the works and days of my hands
and laugh that uncertainty would pause and hesitate
Yes, I must look down that hall and to the Light
And cook the meat, and eat the bread
And so muse to myself on calming summer nights
Of the wonderful, glorious things ahead.