I prayed for you.
I prayed for you when I put purple dresses on dolls and watched them fall in love with the perfect still blue eyes and plastic hair.
When I was older and I saw it in movies. A once in a thousand chances, never thought I’d meet you kind of story. I prayed then.
When the big truck tires squealed and Dad packed his last suitcase away. I pray for you, and that it wouldn’t happen to me.
When I got older I prayed for you still when I thought what I’d prayed for had come along but really just broke my heart.
I prayed you across boats on a Havasu river with no sails, through memories knit into grains of sand, and across metal airplane wings. Every time I looked at the stars I wanted to find you.
I found pieces of you in other people. But it was never you. The prayer was still in a canvas bag to heaven, marked with teardrops and breadcrumbs and spaghetti sauce stains.
On windy days, in the cold, I loved you even though I didn’t know who you were.
I prayed for you but thought maybe you were once upon a time.
I’m learning what to pray now.
I still pray for you. But you’re here.
Do you pray for me?