I once walked with my Father every Sunday.
When other children filled wooden pews
listening to robed men and choral prayers,
I held my Father’s hand and we listened to the world.
He would let me choose a direction.
I liked South the best, if felt like going home.
On a rainy day, splashing in fire engine boots,
I once asked him if he was lost.
“We are all lost,” he replied solemnly,
“Everyone is just trying
where we are going.”
I didn’t quite know what he said,
but I knew what he meant.
Like listening to a Latin prayer,
you know its full of hope and mercy and doubt.