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.’
