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April 2019 Vol. 15 No. 1

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Barbara Tate


Forgive me Father

Sitting in a cubicle on a chair best left for the convicted I'll whisper to a man no more than half my age. I'll wonder if he wonders what an old lady could possibly do that needs confessing. Sure he will. I would if our roles were reversed. But he'll be patient and wait. I'll clutch my rosary like worry beads, winding it through arthritic fingers, pulling it tight and feel the pain.

for I have sinned.

the only way across the creek stepping stones