A Letter to Nicaragua
After reading the sorrow-full, soul-full words of my dearly loved friend, Jen Lemen, I want to write a letter to Nicaragua.
To Xiloa and Paradise and Masaya.
To Charlie and Paisy, to the mothers and their babies,
to the school teachers from the two one-room schools whose stories I listened to with tears flowing,
to the unemployed adults, the hopeful teenagers, and the countless children.
I want to tell them all that I dream of on their behalf.
I want to tell them how much I wish I could be there even now.
I want to assure them that they are never far from my thoughts.
I want them to know that my silence is simply due to physical distance.
My spirit walks with them and holds them all in my arms.
I want them to understand that I cannot,
I truly cannot think about them without crying.
And I want them to know that I love them.
But when I sit down to write the letter, I realize that I don't know their names.
I realize that I don't have addresses for them;
most of them don't have addresses.
So I type these words.
I write them in my journal.
They are etched in my heart, in my soul, in the tracks of my tears.
I miss you.
I love you.
I wish I could see you again.