Nothing will ever dim the memory of a nine-year-old boy standing at the microphone captivating several hundred adults with simple words of fear and resolve.

My mother was an immigrant, he told us, in high, clear tones.  She came to this country for a better life.  What if I had been with her then? What if I had been torn from her arms?  How scared would I have been!  What if I did not have my cozy home, my favorite toy, my mother who loves me?  We must stop this!  We must help these children!

The crowd remained silent during his impassioned words.  I stood with them, alone but somehow not alone in this sea of citizens.  Later I would scroll through my phone and search in vain for a snapshot of that child.    Despite scores of images, I could not find his face.

As I drove further west in the afternoon, I thought of that boy and of the children whose terrible plight we had gathered in Vacaville to protest.  I replayed in my mind the words of a family therapist confirming what I know from my work with abused children.  The impact of the separation from their parents will irreparably harm those children, most of whom hover in the stages of development critically keyed to the positive influences of bonding.

As I turned towards the bay in Vallejo, other images fought for my attention.  A catalog of losses — mine, some of them; but not all.  The hours spent reading my collection of Saturday Musings has reminded me of the pain of past clients about whom I wrote.  My work as a child’s advocate, as a parent’s attorney, and as a divorce lawyer, provided many chances to hear stories of loss time and time again.

I got a soda from a dockside bar and descended the ramp to the outside tables which floated on a loosely moored pier.  I sat with a book in hand and watched the ferry make its way towards the other side of the San Francisco Bay.  I closed my eyes and surrendered to the gentle sway of the impermanent perch.

Another memory came to me.  My brother Frank and I stood on his street in the gathering doom, the night before I drove to Chicago with some furnishings from our Kansas City house to give my son.  Our conversation turned serious for a few minutes.  He folded his arms and gazed into the darkness.  Unexpectedly, he mentioned our childhood.  He said he didn’t much like to talk about the past.  He said, “Our father was an asshole and our brother killed himself, okay; so what’s happened for the last twenty years?”  I smiled, knowing he could not see me.  His statement summarized the place at which I’ve yearned to dwell.

Before I left Vacaville today, I found a used bookstore.  The clerk asked me if I had a credit account. I told her that I was from out of town.  “You look tired,” she observed.  “Have you driven a long way?”  I shook my head.

“I live in the Loop,” I explained, using a reference that everyone here recognizes.  She asked what brought me to town.  “The children’s march,” I responded, and when she looked puzzled, I told her that there had been a rally to protest the separation of immigrant children from their parents.

She said, “Oh, I never go to rallies,” as though I had questioned her absence.  “I don’t have time for that kind of thing,” she concluded.

I did not want to leave her with the impression that I questioned her lack of involvement.  I smiled and said, “I on the other hand, have a lot of free time just now.”  I thought a moment and added, “so I do what I can to help because children are involved.”

She returned my smile.  “Then God bless you, ma’am,” she answered, with an undeniable sincerity.  I had started to turn towards the door.  I stopped and looked at her.

“He does, ma’am,” I assured her.  “Every day.”

It’s the thirtieth day of the fifty-fourth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.