His Place

In a small parish, the pews have names
and are inherited by inches
Older sons slide six long feet into their grandfathers’ place
over 50 years

The minister steps behind the pulpit ready to speak
He rests his hands on each side of the text
to hold the old wood
He pauses to relearn the pattern of their faces
It’s different today

Scott Patterson’s place is in the 4th pew back, on the aisle
His wife leans into it slightly, but it remains empty
and will, he thinks, until she is gone too.
The rest of the family huddles in to her one side,
a granddaughter marks pages in the hymnal

He starts the service with standard words
an appropriate hymn, then collects the room for silence
It’s been too hard a week, he listens for the tears,
birth, marriage, death, even the little deaths—people moving away
It happens to them together here
The sermon consoles, the tone inspires
and he steps outside the front door as they file goodbye
“Hear you’re going off to be a substitute shepard, live in a mud house;
doesn’t sound much like a vacation to me.”
And another, “not sure it speaks well of your sanity.”

it’s good to laugh
he cried for Scott after the service,
after the words were written and delivered
to this congregation he feels as the lines of his soul
“Go on now, think of it as a calling?”

Now he stands at the front of the little church
pews empty, to those who can’t know,
here being the memorial he lives
He rests his hands on the old wood, bows with waiting
and face by face, they sing