Tish Davis

The Gathering

Her relatives sit in folding chairs around the bed; their coats and hats are piled on the recliner. I check to make sure my name badge is pinned to my blouse and then whisper, "Coffee’s on the table.."

Someone cracks open a window. A chair is moved to make space for the parish priest.

on her breast
the rosary
quiets. . .

As the sacrament begins, I notice robins on the bare branches of a crab apple crowned with snow.

sorting sugar packets
recited prayers
I thought I knew