Salting
North Lake Methodist Church
You can add sexton to my resume,
a breezy document uncluttered
by titles like pipe fitter or white water guide.
It makes no mention of stints in private equity,
is unadorned with the bony armature of certification
by the American Board
of Orthopaedic Surgery.
But opportunity came knocking one frozen
Saturday night not long ago. It lifted me up
gently under the arms, cooed as it plucked
a half empty wine glass from my grasping
fingers and bundled me kicking
into a pair of camouflage Carhartt coveralls.
F-150
with snow blade, coveralls, canvas gloves,
the five gallon buckets and fifty pound bags of rock
salt
are to my brother-in-law as bone chisels,
osteotomes and the Bennett
Bone Elevator Retractor
are to a board certified orthopedic surgeon.
A flood light cast our big baby shadows
into the black line of trees beyond
the silver plated parking lot. Pitched
sidewalks to the sanctuary and community hall
glistened with a cellophane scrim, a ham
radio crackle the only sound as we listened
to ice surrender beneath our dainty, geisha steps.
I broadcast the last of my salt in the shadow
of the steeple, but don’t assume this reminded
me of the story of Lot’s anguished wife. On
the contrary, I was picturing myself early
Sunday morning, ushering parishioners safely
into church, clasping the hands of elderly women bent
on the arms of middle-aged sons, men with whom
I exchanged all but imperceptible nods.
No comments:
Post a Comment