The family’s place was on the front pew
so mine was there, too, visible,
or so I felt, to the whole altar and both transepts.
Eyed and evaluated. Grand-daughter. Youngest,
too short to see but hungry to watch;
the kneeler was my ladder and I was the rapt audience
as father called upon the Father
as per the instructions of the Son
and another son nodded embarrassingly to sleep
before God and everyone. His Mother
was all love, and didn’t mind, while before me
angels ascended and descended, and the Word
was made into Real Food, mass after mass,
sacrifice made holy, death revived, awakening into life.
Today is Good Friday, and I’m sharing the poem I wrote in response to yesterday’s NaPoWriMo prompt about a childhood memory. . . . which since it was written on Holy Thursday and I’ve been Catholic my whole life, of course the poem that emerged was on a seasonal theme (and is a true story! I still miss sitting up front with my Grandma). The polaroid at the top was made last year at the church where my parents got married.
Thank you for reading! And if you are observing today, I wish you every blessing.
The Poetry Patio 