NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty Seven, Poem Twenty Six

Tip of the hat to Marc Goldfinger for helping to inspire this one.


Hail
(for my Mother)

Saturday,
Sunday masses
are easily skipped.

Praying
becomes much
easier to forget

when
even the
dying know more

than
whoever now
receives our prayer.

Sleeping,
she clenches
each rosary bead

each
one equaling
a family member,

as
if it's
her hand alone,

her
nighttime grip,
keeping us together.