Sunday

Sunday arrives again
whether I want it or not.

The same light through the windows,
the same door
I unlock before anyone comes.

People file in later,
well-dressed, unhurried,
carrying their small certainties.

They nod politely.

Most of them never notice
the man arranging the chairs.

Years ago
I believed what they say they believe.

I knelt where they kneel.
Sang the hymns.
Stayed late to finish the work.

Then one morning
something in my body gave way.

A sharp break inside the ribs.
I remember the floor coming up quickly.

Someone stepped around me
to reach the aisle.

The singing continued.

After that
I understood my place more clearly.

I still come.

Not out of devotion
but necessity.

The poor rarely resign.

Last week I fell again
at home.

The same wound.
The same dull panic
while trying to breathe.

Funny how the body remembers.

So does the mind.

When they sing about love
I watch their faces.

Most look sincere.

Perhaps they are.

Faith has a way
of polishing the surface of things.

By the end
the church empties quickly.

Cars start.
Doors close.

I turn off the lights,
extinguish the candles,
lock the building.

Sometimes
standing there alone
I imagine the man they talk about—

Christ
with the wounds in his hands.

Not the smiling version
on their pamphlets.

The other one.

The one who would probably
recognize this place immediately.

I step outside.

Rain usually helps.

And for a moment
walking home through it
I feel almost accompanied.