I fidget in the oak pew
count black neckties that strangle
tanned necks mushroomed over starched collars
still damp with the scent of Aqua Velva  

count scrapes, scabs, bruises
from lace ankle socks to the knobby knees
of my pleated skirt
stand to pray
pointy patent shoes pinching my toes

listen to the garbled voice of Mr. Nachtigale
send up his prayers like bubbles
from the bottom of a murky pond
my lips move to the words
How Great Thou Art
Mother’s voice shrill as a parakeet in my ear

I leaf through the onionskin pages
of Father’s black Bible just to hear it rustle
Mother shushes
I lean into her soft arm
my head slides onto her polyester lap
she tucks static hair behind my ear
to expose flushed cheeks

I wait for the drone of the English sermon to end
unwrap the Scotch mint
from its Kleenex sweater
found at the bottom of Mother’s purse
tuck it into my cheek
beside budding molars
pastor’s voice is a German engine

wake to stand for the benediction
my mint pebble still there
just enough to sustain me
until we bow our heads again
to pray for lunch

© by Karen Klassen.
Used with the author’s permission.