for Charlene
The priest came this morning
and gave me Holy Communion,
she said, as if we ought to be
impressed that Christ
was at her bedside,
in her hand,
on her tongue
an hour before and gone.
He keeps coming and going,
she said, from room to room,
the Indian River Nursing Home
become Jesus’ favorite haunt
according to our mother,
a lapsed Catholic
school-girl forever
seeing God.
Then he walked in again,
wearing a skirt, a black jacket,
and sling-back high-heel shoes,
looking remarkably like my sister.
He sat with her for hours,
heard her litany of fears,
fed her dinner,
adjusted her Depends.
They watched Moonstruck,
then danced a brief
wheel-chair dance,
a final Tarantella for the road.
I’ll always love you,
Johnny Cammareri,
Mom confessed and kissed
Christ on the lips.
He cried with her when she cried
for her dead friends.
He stroked her ancient face,
called her beautiful, and meant it.
He promised not to leave her.
He never did.
Angela Alaimo O’Donnell
From Mortal Blessings
Ave Maria Press 2014
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