Every Sunday morning, Katherine stands and sways
with the choir. She sings Glory, glory, glory,
stretches the syllables of Hallelujah.
But one day she sits in a front pew instead of with the choir,
as they sing about rain, rivers, and going home.
The preacher speaks of Jimmie’s pride in his wife
and the three girls who lean against her,
smelling of starch. Katherine can’t remember
who ironed their dresses and ribbons, braided their hair,
polished their patent leather shoes. Had she managed?
The preacher calls out words the congregation calls back.
Then Katherine leaves the pew with people’s eyes on her,
like a bride walking the wrong way.
Friends gather around outside. One hands her
a cup of coffee she doesn’t want, but finally sips.
It’s cold. She touches her daughters’ hair. Tomorrow,
as impossible as it seems, she’ll fix them breakfast.