It’s the wondering that never ends. It never stops. Not for a single minute. It’s always there. Sometimes vivid. Sometimes it’s buried. Buried under the busy-ness, I deliberately put myself through to keep from the wondering.
When I wake up in the morning, I wonder what he’s thinking. What he’s feeling. Is he calling for me? Is he crying? Does he think I’m not looking for him? Has he given up? He’s only three years old.
While I’m cooking breakfast, I wonder if he’s eating. Have they been feeding him? Is he hungry? Is he alright? As I drive to work, I wonder if he’s hurt. Is he in pain? The wondering is alive. As I fumble through paperwork, I see his face on a page and I wonder … is he being tortured? … molested… I try to put those thoughts out of my mind, but they keep coming.
I see my little boy, my baby, being beaten and forced into all kinds of sick sexual acts. He’s only five years old. I wonder if … if he’s even alive. Did he scream “Mama, mama!” As some freaked out crazy maniac strangles him to death … did they bury him alive? I see his face all twisted, terrified, as they throw the dirt over him. I wonder if he’s tossed on the side of the road like garbage, decaying day by day. It’s the wondering that I can’t take. The wondering that kills my soul.
I wonder, does he cry for me at night? He’s only eight years old. Is he in a box, or a closet in the dark? Is he chained or maimed? It’s the wondering… sometimes I pray they find him, dead or alive. Just find him today so I can stop the wondering. Make it all go away.
Day after day, minute after minute, month after month, year after year, after year, oh Lord, just let it stop. Let it end. Only hope keeps me alive. Only the hope. If he is alive, I want to be here when he comes home. I have to be here. But if he’s dead, if he’s gone, then I want to go too. Because I can’t live my life wondering… wondering what they did to my little boy, my baby … he’s only ten years old.
(*Dedicated to Brenda L. and all the other parents who have gone through this*)
