Belief

In ancient Rome, those who would inherit the land
were given an amulet, complete
with the family seal. Called the Bulla,
this medallion symbolized a child’s
unalterable place in the family’s future. 

How did the felt figures of very Anglo-Saxon looking
Jewish-Palestinian shepherds
and the magical Sunday School stories
of my tender years harden
into a belief so ardent, I can almost feel its weight
hang down as I tie my son’s shoes and set
to rest upon my chest as I rise again
to greet the day with him?

I could give it away
or lose it. But I would awake
to find this amulet of belief reaffixed
around my neck, restored in the night,
the way a father drapes the fallen
blanket over his sleeping child,
the way my aging father would when
I would arrive jetlagged and red-eyed
to collapse on his sofa.
The blanket’s settle over me
was as comforting as those Bullas
must have been. I leaned in-
to that tenderness the way a child leans
into a rainbow parachute
which reassures them that they are loved.