In a 17-year-old drunken stupor, towards the end of third-period math,
I walk around my house, from the backyard to the parked car in the driveway,
And my friend’s three-foot-long glass water pipe slips from my hand and hits the concrete,
Shattering into large sharp shards.
In a senseless panic, we decide to bury the glass pieces in the dirt, next to the driveway,
And I wonder now if the people who moved into our old house have ever seen
A sharp corner of glass, broken off of my friend’s water pipe, protruding from the dirt,
Next to the driveway, because sometimes
When we bury things that can hurt us
We do it in a haphazard rush,
With just enough effort to convince ourselves that the danger is gone,
Responsibly taken care of,
Suggesting to ourselves that there is no more observable evidence for my parents
To find out what we were doing in the backyard that day,
In the middle of third-period math.
And years later you’ll wonder
How often we bury evidence of our engagements
In the everyday service of God,
Burying them in the dirt next to the driveway,
Convincing ourselves that the marks of our actions are concealed
In a safe and protected way.
And we’ll walk away towards our cars to return to school,
Convinced that parents are none the wiser, while God, in His infinite kindness,
Ignores the sharp shards protruding from the dirt,
And smiles at the handy work of His children,
Concealing the past
In order to move forward.
