Liturgy of the Hours
Waking
Recognition of my body swaddled in flannel.
Blinking in light, shifting hips—the
familiar
pain centered joint. The receiving
mattress.
Roll until my legs drip off the bedside.
Toes sense the rigid floor, consent to land.
A fluid moment: my feet spreading.
Robe, the light-weight one. Sip of water
from night time’s cup. To the window.
Delight
as six ducks dip and surface on the pond.
Lunches
Everyone eats but me. I have coffee
tempting, the cup all but neglected as I
grab
bread bags, turkey slices, mayonnaise—
the standards—from our burdened
refrigerator.
Mine insists it remains a happy burden, day
after day
scraping the knife over toast, squeezing
bright yellow
mustard in a lacing pattern, portioning out
the carrots.
I fret over whether the children have fruit.
They have food, I pray.
Laundry
Here begins rhythm,
lifting the basket,
descending the stairs,
bending to thrust arms open-fisted
into the pile of crumpled clothes,
shoving the whole mess in the washer.
Forty-five minutes I circle
the kitchen counter, shifting dirty dishes,
stacking clean ones,
putting cottage cheese away.
I pause by the window with clean hands,
grateful to see ducks still swimming
on silver water. The buzzer sounds.
I have to pull hard on the tangle
of wet, heavy clothes. With a click
the drier door locks, machine drone
becoming the cycling song of morning.
Chair
From here, I see only sky out the window.
Sky and clouds, thin wispy threads
of heaven’s mantle, shawl of prophets.
Scripture lays in my lap, a comfort of
weight,
thousands of years’ pleas and praises,
wars, fidelities, all of the animals and
spheres,
the many promises of God, then the Law,
then Law Fulfilled. What glory in the
simple
flowers he says, what dignity in a meal
of fish and bread. A woman sweeps her house
to find the coin she has lost, her precious
keeping.
I glance at the carpet strewn with skeins
of my daughter’s crocheting, my son’s
trading cards.
Whatever peace I seek
hides under these irritating piles.
Afternoon
I check for the mallards and buffleheads.
They bathe, flapping up out of the water;
they play, flying a brief distance then
skidding
into the pond’s silken surface, making
spray.
I decide the window is a lonely place.
I prepare for my pilgrimage to school,
tie the hair away from my face
so my eyes can be seen.
I know I will greet other parents as we walk
to collect our children. I know
I will smile at people whose names I can’t
recall.
Dinner
Two unfolded towels and some socks
still litter the kitchen table,
but we sit down anyway, after I’m finished
pouring the milk. I ask if my son, who has
prompted us
before, if he’d like to lead the prayer.
His chin tucks
into his neck. “Josephine?” I ask my
daughter.
“No.” She speaks definitively.
“David?” I plead, and as he dips his head to
one side
he bleats “thank you for this grub so
lovingly prepared.”
He looks despairingly at me. “You know I’m
no good
at these things.” I look around at them,
all waiting,
hoping I will concede it is finally time to
eat.
With a simple sign of the Cross the prayer
is over,
and probably forgotten. But we won’t forget
dinner.
Not ever.
Bedtime
My room deepens in the dark, a latent space.
There the bed which birthed me this morning,
there my husband already asleep.
I pause to look.
Held up by the house,
this floor, this mattress, I lie down
where I came from, returning
the gift.
