My Head Couched on a Hymnal

My Head Couched on a Hymnal

(“Little children, let us love not in word or speech but in deed and truth.” 1 John 3:18)

 

The fires I once warmed my hands beside
have gone out; the embers have died. The
magic words
that supplied my point of reference have all
be redefined.
These recipes, these ingredients,
these passages of time no longer taste the same.

I sat on the beach often enough to feel when
the wind shifts and the spray spatters across
my forehead. I sat well into the evening as the
sand crabs scampered out of sight.
There has always been a longing for
nights like that: a bonfire on the beach,
the sound of foghorns rolling,
stories told and often repeated,
guitars strummed while we meet for
the first time like it was the last time
we would see each other.

I sat on the back pew and wondered,
(I used to call it praying)
if the words were still any good this far down the road.
The divine spark feels like wintergreen,
the inspiration another long winter’s day.
I crave, I cry, wait like I’ve never
waited before,
for someone to tell me all my past
has been forgotten.
Or for them to say they have never
gotten over the way certain words made
them feel. I laid on the back pew,
my head couched upon a hymnal,
while the ache ate its way to my consciousness.

The fires can be relit, I know. But I long
for more than memorized words. The food
tastes better when shared with you.