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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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A Cup Full of Humble Fragrance #470774 added November 23, 2006 at 6:01pm
Restrictions: None
So Much Work!
Father Flanagan looked up from his reading at the hesitant figure hovering in the shadow by the door.
“Come in Theresa, what can I do for you today?”
The young blonde girl, heavy from waist down but with slim ankles nevertheless, tiptoed in and taking out an envelope from her canvas backpack handed it over to the priest.
“My mother sent you this,” she mumbled.
Father Flanagan pulled out the card from the envelope, his face lighting up.
“A birthday card for me! She didn’t forget. How so thoughtful of Maria! Tell her I’m immensely pleased and humbled. Tell her she is in my prayers. Come, sit down Theresa. Tell me how she’s coming along.”
“Not any better! Worse actually. Not much time left, the doctor said.”
Father Flanagan watched the childlike anguished figure in front of him. There was something awkward about her. Something awkward that he couldn’t put his finger on. No, it wasn’t because her mother was dying. It was something more. With his experience, he could tell to separate the signs of normal grief from complicated feelings.
“Any news of your stepfather?” he asked.
“Ernesto? No. He’s gone for good.”
“Theresa, remember that you can always turn to church. You are not alone, Child.”
“I don’t know. I never was. I mean I never did. I mean I’m not very good with rites, rituals and things.”
“You can always start…Your mother is very devout.”
“My mother’s different. She was here so often when she could walk.”
“I heard that you wrote poetry. Faith is like a poem. It is an affair of the heart and learning of the mind.”
“My mom must have told you that. About me and poetry, I mean.”
“Yes, she did. Last Friday when I stopped by to see her.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“Oh, I couldn’t tell you everything she tells me. I’m a priest, remember.”
“Sorry! I’m not really a church-goer. I don’t have all that much faith, one might say.”
“Faith can stay silent for a very long time. Sometimes people, like poets, avoid excessive glitter. That doesn’t make them any less faithful.”
“Maybe, but I’m different. I better go.”
“No, please stay. I wanted to tell you one more thing. I promised Maria, I’d look out for you. We could help you with the baby here. Please, remember that.”
“She asked you that!”
“Yes. I am telling you now. Ahead of time. So you won’t feel alone because you never are, you know.”
“But I can’t. I can’t come to the church because I shouldn’t.”
“You shouldn’t? There’s something else. Isn’t there, Theresa? More than the baby…”
The girl was silent but she nodded.
“Would you like to confess?”
“No.”
“Don’t you want absolution, to get rid of what’s bothering you?”
“Nothing in a confessional is going to help me.”
“Then talk to me as a friend and I’ll consider it as secret as a confession.”
“Thank you…” The girl was hesitant to start but she did. “I did something very bad to my mother... And now she’s dying!”
Her tears came suddenly, in full blast. She sobbed, her shoulders shaking back and forth in a frenzy. Father Flanagan waited until she calmed down.
“What did you do, Theresa? I had the impression that you and your mother got along very well.’’
“I told Mom that the baby’s father was Ernesto.”
“Oh! … Then what?”
“Mom confronted him. He got angry and told her he didn’t like to be blamed. That’s why he left.”
“Are you feeling bad because he left or because he’s the baby’s father?”
“Yes. No. I feel bad he left. Because right after he left, Mom got sicker and was diagnosed. But…but…”
“What is it, Child?”
“Ernesto isn’t. He never touched me. I hated him. I wanted him to go away because he was always there… With my mother!”
“Theresa, that’s a heavy burden. Did you tell your mother?”
She shook her head.
“Don’t you think she should know the truth?”
“I can’t. I don’t know how. She’ll hate me. If only Ernesto was here…Before she… she leaves.”
“It is all up to you, Theresa, I’ll stop by your house tomorrow. Maybe you’ll have the courage to tell her then.”
Father Flanagan stood up as Theresa turned her back to leave. He thought of Maria. How deceived she was! Then he thought of Theresa who was so much more deceived than her mother. So much more! By her own self. He had so much work waiting for him with this child.
A few minutes later, Father Flanagan rang the bell on his desk.
“Tyler,” he said to the young man who came running. “I need you to locate Ernesto Suarez as fast as you can. Then call him on the phone and I’ll talk to him.”
All those weeds to untangle on God’s path! There was always so much work!
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© Copyright 2006 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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