Psalm 8

Psalm 8


Becky paused in her communion with the supper dishes  
and raised her head to watch a prismed flutter dance with soapsuds.
She followed its creation back into the living room,
and through the mason jar of colored broken glass on the top sill.
It pushed out past the screen to disappear through the porch side portal
she kept trimmed between the wisteria and her Joseph’s coat of color rose.
“Thy Glory above”, she thought, putting the last pan on the towel
and pouring out two glasses of cold tea in anticipation of Sam’s call.

“Come out, Old Woman, and let God dry the dishes.”
Sam leaned forward on the ancient glider rocker
that horded more rust than paint and claimed the quilts beyond repair.
He spat a stream of brown tobacco juice and sent the wad to follow.
“Don’t spit that nasty stuff in my rhododendrons, Old Man.”
He snorted, “Davie says that’s why the darn things grow so big.”
“Out of the mouths of babes and idiots,” Becky muttered from the porch steps.
She set her face to warmth, bare feet comfortable in her personal sunbeam.

“It’ll be a pretty night, I figure, with that slice of moon.”  
“Liable to be more stars out than Cassie’s got freckles.”  
“Bet God’s fingers work them clouds right pretty later on, if they stick around.”  Becky’s fingers found the fat gray cat that had already found her lap.
She hummed a favorite hymn accompanied by purring feline.
Sam thought, “The sun still finds as many colors in her hair,
now that it’s white, as it did when it could match that rose of hers.”
Becky turned, “You get the guitar out tonight, I reckon I feel like singing.”  

Sam said, “Kids’ll be here later on.  Four generations in the house.”
They had lost one son to war, thirty-five years ago this winter,
and one daughter, it seemed, to steel and concrete;
hundred dollar haircuts, and two hundred dollar shoes.
And one, Sam always joked; they’d lost no further than a fine spring stroll.
Kizzy, Jacob, Davey, Cass, Amandy, Grace.  And Melody and Zack.
Not to have favorites, Becky forgave herself,  
but those two were a mindful visit from God if ever there was one.  

She shook her head, remembering, and loosed the  giggle
Sam had been falling in love with ever since she had been twelve.
Last visit from her little angels, five heads crowned in auburn, tow, and corn had bounced up and down on the old bed until one fell
and the passel piled on, with the boys running downstairs to tattle.  
Later the whole bunch had rafted the dips and lumps of the old mattress
like the rise and fall of waves, tempest, fortune, and adventure.  
One rainy day iron bars had jailed the world’s most misfortuned orphans.  



Becky thought of times her hands had gripped those smooth worn rungs.
She’d held on for dear life in surprise at her honeymoon awakened passion:
three times in childbirth thought to bend the headboard with her labor.
She’d circled one rung with a hand as cold as iron itself
and sat so still with the telegram that said their son was killed.
Last year she’d hammered those old rungs in rage and fear
when Doc had told her Sam had got a cancer.  
In a little while she’d grab hold again to brave the goodnight-kisses onslaught.
 
Sam made to rise, a little tottery, Becky thought, and too thin,
pants bunched around suspenders and shirt falling lose enough
to never touch a chest hair as he bent forward.
Thinking as she levered her own ample bulk up off the steps
that he became a little more bound to heaven each day, and she to earth.  
He claimed he prayed he’d go to God first so as not to have to bear her loss.
Sam said, I’m off to fill those hummingbird feeders of yours
and oversee the evening milking of the beasts of the field.”  .

Becky grinned, “You promised the boys a little fishing when they get here.  Couple of catfish or some snapper soup would do me fine.”
Sam nodded, “Wonder what critters they’ll haul home this summer,
snakes, frogs, birds, bunnies, moles, mice, ‘possums or ‘coons?”
“Thank God with the girls, well, except Kizzy, it’s puppies and kittens.”  
“Count your blessings the skunk got Jake before he got it in your living room.”  
“The Lord does smile.”  Becky said with one of her own,
and made a mental note to check all pockets before next washing day.  

She leaned in to peck Sam’s cheek, gasping, “O Lord, our Lord”
as his arms brought her in for a good long hug,
and a good long kiss with lip to lip and heart to heart,
and a treasured moment of shared, remembered heat.
Sam whispered,” More each day, Old Woman,” kissed her hair,  
and started down the steps to follow the last of the sun behind the house.  
Becky picked up the empty glasses of tea
and sent her evening prayers along with him for company.