My parents born in one country,

moved to another,

for freedom.

I grew up between two cultures.

In time I moved to

yet another, third country,

following my husband, starting a family.

 

I should have felt misplaced, astray,

adrift.

But a cord tethered,

pulled me back.

It was a ritual, a sacred one.

A Mass.

The same words, sights and smells

even in different languages,

told me I was the same.

Oh how exquisite, the feeling of belonging!

 

I took for granted, the Sunday mass,

Until one day,

we could not touch another,

even in gestures of peace.

The holy water font was emptied.

We might get infected,

by the deadly virus,

from hell.

 

The church emptied, how shocked I was!

And the communion put away.

Was it possible after

two thousand years?

That first Sunday, I did feel adrift,

bereft.

A lone priest came,

disinfected his hands.

Gave communion

to the few hanging around.

I have never received it,

With such gratitude,

with tears in my eyes and a prayer on my lips.

 

The last I received for many, many months.