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Poem

That Sunday Morning,
the fresh scent of winter in the air,
just slightly coming through the door every time it opens,
entering with the people coming in from the outside,
and following them everywhere they go.

Everyone seated,
spaced out as if saving a seat for someone that was never coming.
A man up at the front,
he speaks,
wanting me to listen,
and he thinks I am for my eyes are on him,
but my mind wanders farther away with every word he says.

He asks for a moment of silence,
and as I see curly, grey-haired women
and the almost fully-bald elderly men bow their heads,
I too, look to the floor.

I do not close my eyes like everyone else;
they remain open as I study my shoes on the back of the pew in front of me.
I know I shouldn't have my feet on the books,
getting them dirty from the dry, dust-like dirt on the bottom of my shoes,
but I do it anyway.

I finally notice the silence of the room,
so big it could echo with every slight movement you make,
yet remains silent.

There are so many people in here with me,
too many to count without getting distracted by the beautiful fall leaves,
catching the warm, yellow sunlight outside the partially shaded window.
Still so silent you can hear the clock ticking from the other side of the room.

For the first time I close my eyes
and picture darkness.

My mind wanders and finally,
when I open my eyes,
seeing so many people surprised me,
for the silence was so deep,
it was as if their spirits had left their bodies,
As if they were already in Heaven,
As if God had already called them home,
but he left me behind because I had not listened to what the pastor was saying.
Because I never closed my eyes during prayer,
or maybe, because I had my feet on the pew in front of me,
dirtying the books.

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