at 19 he was a horrid busser, a
truly terrible server. his love for God
apparent in all he forgave me
for rushing, yelling, pushing him
to work faster - for me taking over
his tables - his smile amazingly loving
forgiving even when i threw sugar
packets at him, disregarding his
love of God.
how i loved to hurt his faith
it made me smile, made me feel I
taught him a thing or two about life
how unfair it was - that we served
while they ate, how each tip we
made was cut in fourths: a tithe
of sorts to ones who cleaned, and sat
and poured drinks
I still dream
of that place, how when we entered
time sped and stood still: a birthday
here, a wedding there - I went to
his and I snickered
- how quickly it would end
even as he studied and was ordained
even as he married and preached in
one of those small parishes where no
one should ever live
four children later, two decades gone
and a call comes in
a post or two
how one day - he packed
a bag, grabbed a phone
and wandered the streets
I had spoken about where
the red birds chirped across rooftops, and blue men walked
about, and piping coffee was served with beignets - how he
was found
alone, gone, dressed as God intended
lips red, cheeks rosy
eyelashesthattouchedthesky
a ripped stocking
how I loved to hurt his faith
how he, by being
living grew mine
