a doll and wore her orange ribbon.
Half the sanctuary turned around.
Faces I had known since childhood.
The looking had a temperature.
My father stood against the rear wall holding his cap in both hands like he always did at funerals.
Then there was my mother.
Lavender dress.
Handkerchief she didn’t need.
Microphone.
After the offering, she stepped to the pulpit.
The microphone squealed.
She waited calmly.
She was good.
I want that recorded.
She thanked God for seasons of sorrow that become joy.
At carefully measured intervals, the
