Page 47

Grandma's house,

dust motes in the afternoon sun,

and there it was, beneath a stack

of yellowed Reader's Digests.

The hymnal. Faux-leather cover,

hard, uncompromising.

Heavier than it looked,

a stone in my hand.

Opened itself to page 47.

"Amazing Grace."

I could hear them, all of us,

squawking off-key at Christmas dinner,

my small voice trying to find

the melody, the solemn

comfort of something

I didn't quite believe.

The stark black notes,

like tiny footsteps marching

across the staff. A cold

familiarity.

It smelled of old paper,

and faint regret. Of childhood

Sundays, and boredom,

and belonging I never felt.