Sticky Fingers

“Our Father who art in Heaven”

our family recited on the drive to 7-Eleven.

As I age, the distance of time wrought my memory,

but how could I forget.

*

The choir singing.

Sticky fingers as we push on the stained glass door.

Deep blue silhouette of Jesus praying

as the ribbons of sunlight peak through

the cracks and onto the floor.

*

Looking up at my father,

as his voice hugged the words

“As the deer pantenth for the waters”

*

Inklings of the language I knew how to read,

were music note symbols;

and my sticky fingers turning the pages

of the faded pink hymnals.

*

Words glided off the pulpit to the hearts of the raw,

Holy Spirit with a southern drawl.

*

The sounds of laughter even my own!

When church let out

playing tag up and down the stairs of the altar,

and climbing the rock wall of stone.

*

The nostalgic aroma of this moment re-introduced itself back into my mind,

flipping on the switch that had been turned off for quite some time.

*

Frosting on our cheeks, and matching laced dresses,

was a repeated Sunday ritual,

and memories of my mothers kisses.

*

In the room with all the animals painted on the walls,

was the highlight of my childhood, where kids my age would learn about Heaven,

and the cheese danish I took to class,

every Sunday, from 7-Eleven.