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Once
,
in
that
chair
stall
under
the
lectern
,
a
dreadful
thing
happened
.
I
wore
the
lace
and
carried
the
cross
and
sang
a
beefy
soprano
.
Once
the
bishop
was
officiating
,
a
nice
old
man
,
hairless
as
a
boiled
onion
,
but
to
me
glowing
with
rays
of
holiness
.
So
it
was
that
,
stunned
with
inspiration
,
I
set
the
cross
in
its
socket
at
the
end
of
processional
and
forgot
to
throw
the
brass
latch
that
held
it
in
.
At
the
reading
of
the
second
lesson
I
saw
with
horror
the
heavy
brass
cross
sway
and
crash
on
that
holy
hairless
head
.
The
bishop
went
down
like
a
pole
-
axed
cow
and
I
lost
the
lace
to
a
boy
who
couldn
’
t
sing
as
well
,
a
boy
named
Skunkfoot
Hill
.
He
’
s
an
anthropologist
now
,
somewhere
in
the
West
.
The
incident
seemed
to
prove
to
me
that
intentions
,
good
or
bad
,
are
not
enough
.
There
’
s
luck
or
fate
or
something
else
that
takes
over
accidents
.
We
sat
the
service
through
and
heard
the
news
announced
that
Christ
was
risen
indeed
.
It
ran
shivers
up
my
spine
as
always
.
I
took
communion
with
a
good
heart
.
Allen
and
Mary
Ellen
weren
’
t
yet
confirmed
and
they
got
pretty
restless
and
had
to
be
given
the
iron
eye
to
stop
their
jittering
.
When
Mary
’
s
eyes
are
hostile
,
they
can
pierce
even
the
armor
plate
of
adolescence
.
Then
in
the
drenching
sunshine
we
shook
hands
and
greeted
and
shook
hands
and
wished
the
season
’
s
best
to
the
community
of
our
neighbors
.
All
those
we
had
spoken
to
coming
in
,
we
regreeted
going
out
—
a
continuation
of
the
litany
,
of
a
continuous
litany
in
the
form
of
decorous
good
manners
,
a
quiet
supplication
to
be
noticed
and
to
be
respected
.
"
Good
morning
.
And
how
are
you
this
fine
day
?
"
"
Very
well
,
thank
you
.
How
is
your
mother
?
"
"
She
’
s
getting
old
—
getting
old
—
the
aches
and
daggers
of
getting
old
.
I
’
ll
tell
her
you
asked
for
her
.
"
The
words
are
meaningless
except
in
terms
of
feeling
.
Does
anyone
act
as
the
result
of
thought
or
does
feeling
stimulate
action
and
sometimes
thought
implement
it
?
Ahead
of
our
small
parade
in
the
sun
went
Mr
.
Baker
,
avoiding
stepping
on
cracks
;
his
mother
,
dead
these
twenty
years
,
was
safe
from
a
broken
back
.
And
Mrs
.
Baker
,
Amelia
,
tripping
along
beside
him
,
trying
to
match
his
uneven
stride
with
her
fluttering
feet
,
a
small
,
bright
-
eyed
bird
of
a
woman
,
but
a
seed
-
eating
bird
.
Allen
,
my
son
,
walked
beside
his
sister
,
but
each
of
them
tried
to
give
the
impression
that
they
were
total
strangers
.
I
think
she
despises
him
and
he
detests
her
.
This
may
last
all
their
lives
while
they
learn
to
conceal
it
in
a
rose
cloud
of
loving
words
.
Give
them
their
lunches
,
my
sister
,
my
wife
—
their
hard
-
boiled
eggs
and
pickles
,
their
jelly
-
and
-
peanut
-
butter
sandwiches
,
their
red
barrel
-
smelling
apples
,
and
turn
them
free
in
the
world
to
spawn
.
And
that
’
s
just
what
she
did
.
They
walked
away
,
carrying
their
paper
bags
,
each
one
to
a
separate
private
world
.
