artwork: ralph murre
Saturday
Night
by
Peggy Trojan
We
choose the top shelf where veterans go,
Sixty,
in my prime, four, in his.
One
hundred seventy degrees coaxes us to sit still,
adjusting
to the heat.
We’d
partnered before. He knows the rules.
No
clothes, no rough talk, no throwing water,
no
obvious stares. Church manners.
The
room is small. Lined in cedar, three
tiers of bench.
Stove
in the corner, topped with rocks.
Thermometer,
dim light, water basin and dipper.
Birch
bough switch for the penitent.
Having
shed all visible signs of status at the door,
we
sit side by side, equals.
Talk
is sparse. No chatter. Quiet observation.
We
sense the spirits of my parents, and their parents,
and
parents before them. We feel Finn.
We
dip wash cloths in the basin between us
to
cool our flaming faces. Smile.
Talk
becomes confident and wise.
“Did
you ever notice, Gramma, that men and women
look
the same from the back,
but
not the front….?
Then
dumps the communal water
on
his head.
~
first published in The Finnish American
Reporter
