The church is too hot, the service too long.
Beside me, Mama’s hat is drooping
like wilted corn leaves.
Beside me, Daddy’s seat is empty
just like it was last week.
The roof arches high overhead.
I count the beams above me as the Reverend drones on:
something about streams in the desert and making all things new.
Around me people are nodding, shifting in their pews,
swatting flies, hushing antsy children.
Everybody is already longing for streams in this desert –
it’s not like that’s something new.
When we kneel to pray, I look at Mama.
Her lips are moving softly, eyes fanned shut.
Her mouth forms the word ‘rain’ like it’s something holy.
I shut my eyes and pray too.
I know I’m supposed to pray for rain,
for those streams in the desert.
Instead, I pray for a new dress.
(Flowered blue and yellow would be nice.)
(But I’d take anything at this point, God.
Just so long as it’s new.)
God must be getting enough petitions for rain these days.
And these days I’m tired
of faded, dust brown calico,
let down till there’s nothing left
and still too short.
If God can make all things new,
surely he can make me a new dress…
Surely that’s not too much to ask?
Thoughts, reactions to this poem? I’d love to hear from you in the comment section!