Sunday

 Sunday School

 

On Sundays my mother would ask: 

“Do you want to go to church with me 

or do you want to go to

Uncle Ed’s house with daddy”?

 

After a few church visits: 

I dropped my beads, 

sat on the kneeler,

couldn’t understand Latin,

“Go with Daddy.”

 

Uncle Ed was always seated 

at the head 

of long wooden table

with his back to 

the porch door 

opening.  

 

Aunt Jen always seated me 

in the chair to Uncle Ed’s left, 

pushed me in. 

 

My father sat

on the porch.

 

Uncle Ed would say, “Hi Honey,”

 and go on eating his Pilot crackers  

drinking black coffee

 

I’d nod, smile, swing my legs

accept a Pilot Cracker and coke.

Aunt Jen would disappear.

 

Uncle Ed/ Captain Ed 

a lifelong fisherman

would stare out 

the kitchen-window

at the end of the table

 studying an invisible

 horizon line. 

 

Sometime my father would say,

The tides high or

the barometer is falling.

 

Mostly Uncle Ed and I

ate in companionable silence.

 

At five Sunday school 

was a must

Bible stories

how to bless yourself.

 

 In the name of the Father 

and of the Son and of

 the Holy Spirit. 

Amen.

 

I knew the Father, Uncle Ed 

 the Son was my father, 

the Holy Spirit just floats.

Uncle Ed and my father 

could be counted on. 

They answered prayers.

 

People go to

 mountain tops, 

temples, churches, 

and synagogues 

to find peace,

 enlightenment. 

 

But me on Sundays

anywhere 

 

I close my eyes  

sit next to Uncle Ed 

seek the horizon he saw 

 silence we shared. 

 

I know the meaning 

of communion.