The weekday Mass at 6 a.m.

brings the old folks out

from bungalows

around the church.

They move like caterpillars 

down sidewalks,

some with canes,

some on walkers.

 

Father Doyle says the Mass

and then goes back to the rectory

to care for his mother

who cannot move or speak

because of a stroke.

 

And every Sunday at noon

when the church is full,

Father Doyle, in full vestments,

wheels his mother

in a lump

down the middle aisle

and lifts her like a chalice

and places her in the front pew 

before he ascends to the altar.

 

Sometimes at night,

when his mother’s asleep,

Father Doyle comes back to the Church

and rehearses in the dark

three hymns she long ago

asked him to sing at her funeral.

 

He practices the hymns

because the doctor said 

she could go at any time.

When that time comes,

he doesn’t want to miss a note.

The last thing she ever said was

“Son, I’ll be listening.”

 

© by Donal Mahoney.

Used with the author’s permission.