Sunday Morning in Fanwood, New Jersey, 1978
An old church memory
Pulling open the heavy door
Unto a miracle at the end of our street.
Leaving the late morning glare,
Eyes can open wider now
In the soft dimness.
Ages old carpet beneath new buckle shoes
Already scuffed from
Harsh sidewalk dragging steps,
Running across streets,
Just beating cars,
A lone eleven-year-old
Going into church
To visit God.
The parents do not believe.
They send her to learn the stories
For culture,
But she goes to feel
The hug,
The flowery perfume
And old books
Of older ladies who care about us,
Like Jesus
Loves me this I know.
Sit down.
The chairs squeak
The tables wobble.
Sit down
And draw
Jesus.
____________________________________________________
This poem was originally published on Medium.com.
About the Creator
Rebecca Morton
An older Gen X-er, my childhood was surrounded by theatre people. My adulthood has been surrounded by children, first my students, then my own, and now more students! You can also find me on Medium here: https://medium.com/@becklesjm
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Awesome poem I like it congratulations 🎉🎉