She sits in a quiet reverence,
a sack of groceries at her side,
riding the St.Charles line home
as she has done every day now
for almost forty years.
The route is mapped out before her,
sights and sound memorized
like the worn photos of her wedding day.
A strange comfort, these clanks and hums,
these breaks in the neutral ground.
She crosses herself as the churches pass by,
hands as delicate and soft as tissue,
as brown as the leaves on the trees passing by
in the bleak light of a late november afternoon
Oak, magnolia and willow,
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
a sack of groceries at her side,
riding the St.Charles line home
as she has done every day now
for almost forty years.
The route is mapped out before her,
sights and sound memorized
like the worn photos of her wedding day.
A strange comfort, these clanks and hums,
these breaks in the neutral ground.
She crosses herself as the churches pass by,
hands as delicate and soft as tissue,
as brown as the leaves on the trees passing by
in the bleak light of a late november afternoon
Oak, magnolia and willow,
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
A little old woman that sat across from my wife and I on the st.Charles Line trolley in New Orleans on our honeymoon. She looked ancient, tissue thin brown skin on hands that delicately moved to cross herself everytime we passed a catholic church. It was a beautiful act, this elderly woman honoring the Holy Spirit every time we passed the Host in another church. 8 years later, I can still see her in my mind as if it happened this morning.I wrote this in response to Katrina. in the hell filled days follwoing her landfall, I found myself worrying about this nameless woman, hoping she was safe with family somewhere else.
