Sanctuary
The interior of the church is dimly lit.
It’s a weekday afternoon, so the building
is empty, except for two people.
One is a teenage boy.
He has glasses too big for his face,
and the same haircut he’s had since he was five.
He’s wearing clothes chosen by his mother.
The other person is an older woman.
Honestly, she’s probably in her forties,
but that’s old to him.
He is crying.
In those days it was hard for him to cry.
Not because he didn’t have reason.
She has one arm around his shoulders,
there in the front pew.
The sanctuary smells faintly of incense,
a scent that never truly leaves.
Sanctuary. In earlier days the door of a church
was a shield from persecution.
The boy isn’t running from the law, though.
He’s trying to come to grips with abuse
and undiagnosed depression and a total lack
of any means of escape.
Beyond the heavy door is the heavier town.
He asked to be sent away to boarding school,
but his parents said no.
There’s nothing she can do, really,
but tell him it’ll be okay.
She’s wrong, but at least she says it.
/ / /
1 August 2023
Charlottesville VA
This is poem 11 in a series called 50 Days Till 50 Years. I’m writing a poem a day between now and my 50th birthday. I’m going to try to focus on memories of my past, and the people who inhabited it.
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