caroline ridgway

I found altar flowers sitting

at my doorstep this Sunday, wilting in the Florida

August heat –

their piety drained,

sagging, heavy-blossomed red and peach-colored roses, tall purple somethings at mid-staff,

smaller, brighter purple I don’t know whats fading – the weight of it all.

I know my flowers about as well as my saints.

They came from the priest with a handwritten note

– an offering? a bribe? a prayer for the lost? –

for my birthday, despite, well, let’s be honest, my lack

of churchgoing.

This is the church of my baptism.

This is the church that saved my mother’s life.

This is the church that buried my brother.

This is the church I never attend for services.

– thanks be to God, thanks be

forgot and never brought to mind,

these old acquaintances. I have acquired this life.

I’ll take the cup of kindness, though, and drink fully.

Tonight, there is thunder, and a full moon, lighting the clouds from behind

you can imagine a God. What fun! To hold electricity in your hand.

Earlier, I sat in meditative prayer – there is, after all,

another year turning over. More memories stacking up

on hope and expectation. The weight of it all.

These flowers are not long for this world. But I – I tell

myself – I am love, and loved.