What Continues on Sundays

Again I am small and hang between them,
my father dark with a deacon's carnation
tacked to his lapel, his fingers
about my wrist and my mother still
in the green felt elegance of her robe.
I can only recall three Sundays
when she joined us
and then only on Easter.

More often than not, Mother lied for me,
standing before my door conjuring
sore throats and fevers.
But if I stayed home, it was my father
in Sunday lunch silence,
Father with the list
of the unfortunate we might visit
on a Sunday afternoon.

I dreaded the widow with the broken hip,
the weight of her Bible across my lap
as she requested Ecclesiastes in her sour breath.
Mother stayed in the car,
waiting for the country drive my father had promised.
From the window I could see
my mother's arm hanging over the door of our Ford,
head back as she dozed.
I read till the widow dozed as well,
till my father slowly filled
finally rose.