Lucky day! Father McShane was on the altar.
I knelt in gratitude, in silent applause.
He said mass faster than the lead car in a drag race.
Hosts flew and before we knew it: “Ite, missa est.” *
The nine a.m. ritual was well worth it on Sundays with daddy.
Out of the mist of sneezy incense, enclosed in glass tabernacles
food for the soul of another kind awaited us at the Brewster bakery.
Father and daughter a spiritual team of confectionary communicants,
were in search of the one true doughnut, the absolute muffin.
My father kept us ever faithful.
*Go, the Mass is ended
©Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
June 14, 2012