As the fog of COVID-19 began to descend on 2020, I found myself suffocating within my own bubble, beset by stay-at-home orders, riots, political turmoil, and perhaps the worst threat of all: the relapse of my mother’s cancer.
As one wave of turmoil upon the next beat against the metaphorical shore of my life, the riptide seemed to pull me further and further from myself. But, as I learned from a wise Italian, it’s when we begin to cry out, we realize we are crying out to Someone who listens.
As I didn’t have much mental bandwidth for common prayers, reading books, or watching movies, I turned to the simplest and shortest form that I could find for help: poetry.