Monday, October 15, 2012

A Church For All Sundays

A woman I never expected! A real "Young Lady!" She arrived, a sort of guest, and I saw her, and knew her: Not a child, but retains the topography of a child's face. She wears clogs, and has tattoos, wrapped around pale, loose-goose arms. She has large, square hands, one finger cut with a peridot. She seeks bells: a church for all Sundays. She seeks: Saint Christopher, pollen swirling in tea, the sound of the rosary being said on the Catholic channel, her grandmother's deep-set, round-brown eyes, smiling, like bells, her soft paper skin, and mass at the old mission, with it's ceilings "On High," the votives. There is no church like that in this little town. The buildings are new, post-even-asbestos, it is a new sort of "Catholic," but she intends to accept it anyway -if only a little- because things aren't all "Black-n-White" to her, because she done grown up. All is not simple. All is fucked! All is swell! Peace be with you and-also-with-me-hell-I-work-hard! Grandma, let's walk to the beach, let's play croquet.

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