Prayer


A caretaker…she had asked me about…how I feel about…prayer.

The room enclosed, sterile, without flair.

I bounce the question around my mind like kick balls fluctuating against a solid wall.

Where was the ‘good doctor’ going?

She knew my truth…yet, there had been a wanting of understanding.

Needles in a cushioned tomato…picking, pricking, anxiety clouded my honesty.

All I had known was the ‘Father!’

Why corner me with him?

My resolve against religion was worn thin.

All revelations and testaments were gaunt.

I did not pale in response.

‘I cannot speak for you…What you have been through…I only understand that the King…did not give me my due.’

In the silence,

only a simple response…

‘I will pray…for you.’

 

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