I'm trying something new, taking a risk this month - participating in
#VerseLove with Sarah Donovan,
hoping to write poetry every day this April.
Today's poetic inspiration comes from Alison Berryhill, who challenges us to remember a vivid visual moment from childhood, and to create a poem that has vivid colors and sounds. I decided to focus on our weekly ritual of getting out the door for Sunday Mass.
Off to Church
Every door of the old green station wagon
is opened wide, to fool the hot sun.
Dressed in his blue suit and white button-down,
tie hanging loosely around his neck, to knot later,
he takes one last puff of his cigar, and
bellows, “Load ‘em up!”
Hearing his roar from inside,
the ritual haphazard scramble to the car ensues,
quick tapping of our black dress shoes,
swoosh of elbows, knees, and backsides,
adorned in freshly-ironed fabric,
squeezing, squirming into the seats.
I scooch over to the middle of the middle,
give one tiny yelp as bare skin hits hot pale vinyl, and
adjust my blue and green plaid skirt under the exposed leg.
Sonny and Ralph clamber in from the rear,
careening over the bench,
one random foot bumps me in the head before
they flop down, sandwiching me,
their white dress shirts flowing loose
from the belted waists of their khakis.
Mark and David race out,
right at their heels,
laying claim to the favored
rear-facing back bench,
now with younger brothers' footprints, and
swing this heavy door closed, with a slam.
Mom walks calmly and assuredly from the house,
sidles and settles into the front passenger seat,
holding the skirt of her soft, blue dress, demurely.
Dad climbs into the driver's seat,
vrooms the engine.
It's Sunday, and we are off to church.