For Heather, Katie and little Jacqueline

The poet Wyatt Prunty, of whom I’ve recently become a fan, is a professor at Virginia Polytechnic Institute, and that’s something to think about: A man of that talent must make his living teaching poetry to bored engineering students. Meanwhile, Suzanne Somers owns the best-seller list.
As an example of Prunty’s talent, here’s a poem of his called “Learning the Bicycle,” which was dedicated “for Heather.” I assume she’s his daughter, although I couldn’t find any information about Prunty’s family.

The older children pedal past
Stable as little gyros, spinning hard
To supper, bath, and bed, until at last
We also quit, silent and tired
Beside the darkening yard where trees
Now shadow up instead of down.
Their predictable lengths can only tease
Her as, head lowered, she walks her bike alone
Somewhere between her wanting to ride
And her certainty she will always fall.
Tomorrow, though I will run behind,
Arms out to catch her, she’ll tilt then balance wide
Of my reach, till distance makes her small,
Smaller, beyond the place I stop and know
That to teach her I had to follow
And when she learned I had to let her go.

This poem has been eating at me since I first encountered it about six months ago. The big emotional blow comes in the final two lines (Is that a couplet? I'm not really a poetry guy), where the narrator arrives at his conclusion about the need to let go. He’s preparing himself, as we all must, for that melancholic sucker punch that accompanies change. That one keeps me up at night.
But that’s not the hardest part of the poem — at least not anymore. It’s that first word in line 11. Tomorrow.
It’s written with the hope that his daughter will succeed. The entire poem is based on the premise that all of this will happen, that tomorrow can be counted on, which is a premise that lately has felt difficult to support. What assurance, after all, does he have? How can he be sure he’ll still be there for her? How can he be sure his daughter ...?
Boy, nobody should be thinking like this. A year of reading and writing stories about Katie Flynn, the 7-year-old Lido Beach girl who was killed by a drunk driver, colors all discussions about parenthood and faith and the future. Imagining what that little girl’s parents went through — are still going through — turns everything black.
A friend of mine says there is relief to be found in the example set by the Amish, who say they have already forgiven the gunman who murdered their little girls in last month’s school shooting. An Amish midwife who was present for the births of two of the slain girls told ABC News, “If you have Jesus in your heart and he has forgiven you ... [how] can you not forgive other people?”
My answer would be, because it’s never that simple. Pain fades at its own pace. The fear that the pain will never leave creates its own anguish, and it’s all very real. Still, it seems like the Amish, who on one hand might appear to be simply denying that agony, are on to something.
Their faith sounds rooted in the belief that the pain will fade even when it is still so fresh that it feels like it never will. If they truly have that level of faith, then I’m jealous.
But I’m heartened by the example of my wife, who lost both parents and her oldest brother within a few years of one another. Since then, she has become a mother. She has said that having a child, knowing how suddenly and horribly things can end, was a radical act of hope — the ultimate expression of the faith that life was still worth showing up for. And the rest of her family has expanded, too: She now has a dozen nieces and nephews, and her cousins are all having children.
In fact, we got a call last week about a new arrival, another cousin, another little girl, in Bellmore. Welcome to the family, Jacqueline Elizabeth, and try to remember that nobody is born knowing how to ride a bike.