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Tuesday, September 20, 2011

MOLLY

Her twisted body sentenced her
to wheelchair and bed
but could not exile delight.

My visits, few enough, it's true,
were welcomed as if she really
did remember who I was.

What I learned about her was
sketchy, episodic, told
in bursts like a four-year-old.

Talking cost her effort, her
voice raspy, her face red.
She preferred talking to listening.

It was her chance to shine,
to be someone of consequence.
I learned to listen.

She guided me into
and through the fifty years of
her contracted world.

I found, to my surprise,
a place absent of complaint
or fear or sulk or rage.

And when, about to go, I'd
say, each time, would you like
a prayer? Her face lit up.

I'd say a line, "Our Father
who art . . ." and
wait to hear her echo.

Then, half-way through,
remembering, she'd race ahead
to "trespass against us."

I wondered what she knew of
trespass, hers or others, what
need she had of forgiveness.

And then we came to what
I still remember most.
Her eyes squeezed shut,

Her fervency fervent,
she prayed ". . . and lead
us into temptation. Amen."

And I wondered if, maybe,
her version made
as much sense as the original.

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