Saturday Night Sermons

I remember being too young

laying down on the benches after dad’s gigs--

especially the Portuguese hall on Ocean View.

Waited for him to finish packing up instruments,

and listened to the chatter of all the different people,

all of their conversations.

Sometimes I would pick up a random sentence,

a boisterous laugh

or a whistle.

But mainly it all just sounded like church.

There could be half a dozen or two hundred, wouldn’t matter.

It would all still sound like mass, like Hail Mary on repeat.

The pulsating buzz of shrill and baritone would lull me to sleep,

and the cool, hard bench became so comfortable.

My weighing eyelids were glad to be

way up past their bedtime.

Felt like home.

He’d have to stir me from that good sleep and I’d

pretend to be cranky.

Rode in between a speaker and the PA, wouldn’t be long before I was

crawling into a crisp bed.

Nothing like the relief

of giving in to exhaustion. The welcoming of ice-cold sheets

and a blanket up to my ear.

Somehow I’ve always strangely loved

feeling like a part of everything and nothing.

I was too young to understand the answered prayers on those Saturday nights.

I was too young to realize

God was talking.

Circa 1988

6/16/14