Blessed one of all

Husband, wife, or child, who is the blessed one of all?

‘Tis a holiday and they are driving through the wild,

“Tell me, Papa, am I prettier than your wife?”

Husband turns around smiling and pats the playful little child,

“Yes, my princess, you are but the sole rose of my life”,

Glancing at his wife, he mouths a silent denial,

Hearing her soft chuckle, he returns to his wheel,

Two angels who keep him immortal through recurring times of trial,

They were his pillars, as much as his Achilles’ heel,

Tell me, is the Husband blessed one of all?

Her father holds her finger, too scared to let her go,

Mother hums a melody, a lullaby to make her sleep,

But the child stubbornly plays on, rocking to and fro,

Knowing all too well, they would never cause her to weep,

A joyful shriek she gives, as she spots a singing nightingale,

Never had she seen one, not one through forty full moon days,

A melody so pleasant, such promises of hearty and hale,

Looking back across the mountain roads, for an encore she prays,

Speak to me, is the Child blessed one of all?

Sunshine warms her face while the cold breeze runs through her hair,

Hugging her beautiful child, she feels an overwhelming rush of love,

“Why are you crying, mama?” asks the innocent with care,

Mother whispers to her child, “Tears of joy, my sweet little dove”,

She turns towards her handsome and remembers that day,

When he had consumed her tears with soft kisses of his own,

“Protect them m’Lord, shield them every which way”,

Closing her eyes, she wishes, “even if it means at the cost of my bone”,

Decide now, is the Mother blessed one of all?

Gods have a way of hearing your prayers, because they are too kind,

Most often than not, your words will all be heard,

So a steep curve and a drunken truck were what they had in mind,

To send the three hurtling down towards the cold song of the bird,

Husband wakes up with a jolt in the middle of the night,

Wishing it were all but just an echo of a bad dream,

But the needles in his skin give him a mighty fright,

Sterile, sad, and sick, he sees, before the piercing scream,

White cloaks rush to his side and feel his pulse and vein,

Husband begs the aged one, “Where be my child? Where be my wife?”

Years of healing and mourning look at him in pain,

“Your wife is no more, son, but the little one still fights for her life”,

Stumbling across the tiles, he pleads the dear god to give back his rose,

Limping from bed to bed, he finally reaches out to his little pony,

A missing leg, a broken rib, lips twisted so high so as to kiss her nose,

Never before were they heard, such shattering wails of agony,

Now you know, my beloved, how three lives can be halved,

One with the burden of the living and the memories of the dead,

One buried six feet under, worms and maggots yearning to crawl,

One crippled for life, a scarred beauty pinned to the bed,

Husband, wife, or child, who is the blessed one of all?