photoart: ralph murre
Lost Blessings
by Albert DeGenova
At
the bottom of a hotel pool
someone’s
scapular is flailing.
I
dive in, retrieve the brown string choker
stand
on the pool ladder
hand
held high, holding it for all to see –
a
man runs up to me
grabs
the icon from my hand
kisses
it, sighs, says gracias.
How
did I remember that word “scapular”
I’d
recognized it, the thing, immediately
sacred
reminder of something
something
significant
a
gift from my priest
given
with my First Holy Communion —
I
lost mine, don’t think it lasted through second grade
even
though we were never to take it off, ever.
It
was a blessing,
I
think, that gracias.
I
try to remember
the
pang, the missed breath
effect
of kissing a crucifix –
as
the friar in gray tunic does
saying
his rosary
fingering
brown wooden beads
sitting,
eyes closed, across from me
at
the flight gate
our
plane delayed by rain
and
thunder.
~
previously published in A Slender Thread (Little
Eagle Press)
