Let the dead carry the weight of you
when the road is long,
the climb too steep
—worn treads, bare threads—
out of time,
in place.
A bereaved mother's touch to guide you,
an empty hand to hold
when you're on the brink
of a faltering jump to the sidewalk
she is right there with you
to lift you
over the deep mud, the oily puddles.
In that dark mirror
let her show you the shattered faces
of the ones taken
but still here with you,
still here
in a world seen through her eyes
for what it was
and for all it can be.
These words came to me after a visit to the apartment that was the historic home of Emmett Till and Mamie Till-Mobley in Chicago.
