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Sunday Rituals

John T. Hitchner

My father inspects me like an interrogator.
“Stand up straight,” he says.
“You have to look nice for church.”
I stiffen,
dare not slouch.
He tugs the shoulders
and yanks the hem of my gabardine suit jacket.
“Pull your pants higher. Let the creases be sharp.”
I smell his Old Spice after-shave.
I see his black whisker specks,
his cautious eyebrows.
“There,” he says and appraises me:
“I guess you look all right.
“Behave yourself in church.”

In church
I sit beside my mother.
We watch my father march with the choir,
his hymnal held like an offering.
His throat tightens,
strains for high notes of God’s glory.
During prayers
I bow my head,
touch the sharp creases of my pants.
No blood shed.
My mother hands me an open prayer book.
I read silently,
the letters and words odd pieces of a puzzle
I have solved all the other Sundays:
If you say the right words,
you will be good, and God will be happy with you.

What would happen if I tore the pages from the book,
scattered them like so many coins?
Would anyone pick them up, count them,
put them back together?

Stained glass saints and martyrs stare above my head.



What would happen
if I shattered their faces with stones,
shards of eyes and mouths scattered within and without?

Can God see me?
Can He read my mind?
Would He cast me out,
or tell me to sit up straight and behave myself?

The minister makes the sign of the Cross above us:
“May the blessing of God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,
be amongst you and remain with you, always.”

My mother folds her hands.
My father cradles his hymnal.
My hands skim the creases of my pants,
like fingers testing blades of knives.



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