The Good Son

I.

The neat and tidy widow in front of us
sits semi-solid with her crisp black Bible
opened on her pressed pleated lap.
I can’t make out the passage.

She finger-reads a verse, maybe in Psalms,
and raises sweet swollen eyes to sing
about a victory in Jesus, a fountain full and free,
or a happy home in heaven where no tears are shed.

Three days ago, her husband heaved
a final breath, dropped tree-like down
in their living room, clutching temples,
pounding an artery slough of blood and buildup.

She knows this pew. It’s her pew.
She’s paid for it with weekly checks and songs
and rambling sermons and earnest prayers
and now the sweetie whom death has parted.

I want the verse she’s eyeing for comfort.
Maybe death breeds insight, a new spirit,
a refined slant of light, a gentle murmur
that once answered all our questions.

II.

There is a certain pause we all grow to know—
the preacher drops his voice, the volume trailing
from hellfire to pleading—Come, brother, come!
Sister, surely some sin simmers. Come! Come!

His invitation echoes in opening hymnals,
our knees cracking to a group stand and one voice
urging—Come! Come! Then, one raven haired girl
yields to the aisle, stumbling forward, compelled

by the old fierce pull of blood. She’s hiding
her new curves under a print dress, a pale green
timely in spring, not a brisk October Sunday.
Almost to the 4/4 beat she steps to the front.

I walked that same aisle at twelve, praying hell
would wait another second until I came up and out
of the stale, living water. Then at 20, in my rented suit,
I bought an old man’s vows and a loyal wife.

The girl sobs not in saved relief or wedding joy.
Her mother and father meet her there. They shake.
This week brought news she’s pregnant.
Her young lover gone, shrugging off a call of confession.

III.

My father left church to us thirty years ago.
He found salvation in schematics, flowcharts,
the magical mystery of magnetism and electricity.
His spark was never my spark.

He was my ghost in the machine though,
when spirit didn’t fit sense. My mother
hauled my sorry soul each Sunday and Wednesday
to Bible class, song service, and sermons.

So many sermons, I have written my own.
Now, I lead prayers and teach gospels
to yawning teenagers too tired to hear love
or grace over Saturday night swoons.

It’s my birthday—one day past thirty-three. I sit by
my wife and little daughter and my graying mother.
I play my part. My father is home reading the paper.
My daughter is memorizing the twelve apostles.

We’re winding down, just two more songs
and a closing prayer. I’m jotting down hymn titles
in the back of my Bible. They are for my funeral
when even I will leave the world to lonely women.