Lost Souls

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
to pretend
we know
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.

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