Rosary pendulums from your rearview mirror with unwavering doubt. The Virgin Mary is velcroed to your dashboard, blessed by your grandmother’s wineglass, and present at her deathbed. There is a cross bent from palm leaves, 2011. They are supposed to be burned on Good Friday, between noon and three–ashes accompanying the footsteps to Golgotha. You were never good with fully committing to the letter of ritual. This crucifix has seen two different cars, half a countryside, and several former future ex-girlfriends. You are picking up your mentor from a single-gate airport in central Illinois. You have learned to keep only what you carry and always revise yourself up to the neck of a stanza. She studies you for a moment before breaking into sunlight and jazz. She comments on the BVM statue which has held vigil over your actual miles for years. Heartland skies and grace thread a needle through years of fabric. Another stitch in the seams of stories and miles. Conversation like no time has passed at all.
around the valley
fog passes for ghosts Continue reading