Mema’s Hymnal
On mornings
we went
to church,
I sat by Mema
practicing my solemn prayer
and sneaky wonder.
By her,
I learned the art of
sly side-eye survey
of heads bowed,
eyes closed,
palms, pressed neatly, in laps.
By her,
I writhed in itchy tights,
wiggling endlessly on
hard pews; Mema,
always gentle with the
knee pat,
freed my fingers
to be-
come horses
galloping across Bibles,
jumping over hymns
while lips still mumbled
at least some of the right words:
Our father,
who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name,
da-da-dun…da-da-dun…da-da-dun…
A-men.
Service concluded
between our hands
with a shared hymnal.
Her fingertips tracing notes,
her silky scarf tickling my arm,
her five-foot-frame
projecting a voice unlike
any other:
a high note,
a beat ahead,
a tick louder
makes a kid think that
loving god must
sound
like Mema —
wide open
in song.
Read. Write. Repeat. 