When the waters came we were sitting,
On your dry front porch,
Watching the remaining embers of the greedy fire-swept city,
Die away;
The columns of smoke turned white as the poisonous, salty, and chilling tide blanketed the coals of what use to be a bright and busy boardwalk,
Full of blissful people;
Our view from your faithful home,
Perched atop the capitalized mountain of melted houses now dressed in gray,
Was perfect;
We could soak it in, the reality of what was coming,
Everything,
Even the crisp cutting cry of the ocean bending and breaking the iron arms of the baseball stadium hit our home.
And there we sat,
You on your piano bench, gently, like a mother,
Softly caressing the ivory keys of that poor puling piano,
While my callused fingers bled emotion through the heartstrings of my frowning guitar;
And you sang!
Oh your sweet liberated vocal chords announced to the earth,
That we were all that was left.
And your voice guided the waters to us,
Giving birth, like a virgin, to our own Nile River;
And when it cradled the wail of an abandoned infant in a 4000 year old woven basket to our port,
You smiled,
And waded through the polluted muddy water,
Past the sailing washing machines and anchored minivans,
To the middle of our dead and silent street,
Where the Egyptian package met you;
And as you spread your arms out to catch the floating treasure,
The wind blew through your wingspan,
Up to your pitch-black star bright hair,
And brushed it out of your green eyes,
Revealing the smile you were hiding;
The smile I had never seen before,
A smile that assured me,
Everything was gone,
But not to worry, we wouldn’t be left behind,
Soon, we’d be gone.
So you opened the dull brown basket,
Your pale skinny fingers almost snapping under the weight, but had enough strength,
No more,
No less,
And out shot a hand, stolen of its staff,
A small wrinkly hand, amidst the blowing ash and calm water.
It took hold of your finger,
Like a child does a balloon,
A yellow one;
And your smile grew faint,
While you tucked in this infant,
This lost cause,
This baby moses;
You wrapped him in swaddling clothes,
The ocean mist perfumed him with frankincense and myrrh,
And you let your draped hair cover your tired face as your back bent to kiss our baby moses on the forehead;
Such a brave kiss!
Quick and painless, without hesitation,
And you made sure he was snug and warm,
And replaced and secured the intricate woven dome of the wicker basket over him;
Then you pushed him away from his yellow balloon,
Into the rising waters,
Just like Yocheved must’ve done.
And you turned,
Without a cowardly second glance back at the biblical baby;
And you waded; waste deep, back to our musical messengers and me,
And there we sat,
Sending musical messages from that dim front porch;
Even as the waters came,
To the level of your accepting keys;
Even as the waters came,
To the level of our necks and washed against the ash that caked our empty faces and aged us through the years until our hair,
Was as thin and white as Abraham’s;
Even as we took deep deep breathes,
In the cold jealous water,
It came.
And there we sat,
On your wet front porch, letting go to all we ever thought we knew;
Providing the elevator music to whichever direction we were headed,
Up or Down.
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