The weekday Mass at 6 a.m. <br />brings the old folks out <br />from bungalows <br />around the church. <br />They move like caterpillars <br />down sidewalks, <br />some with canes, <br />some on walkers. <br /> <br />Father Doyle says the Mass <br />and then goes back to the rectory <br />to care for his mother <br />who cannot move or speak <br />because of a stroke. <br /> <br />And every Sunday at noon <br />when the church is full, <br />Father Doyle, in full vestments, <br />wheels his mother <br />in a lump <br />down the middle aisle <br />and lifts her like a chalice <br />and places her in the front pew <br />before he ascends to the altar. <br /> <br />Sometimes at night, <br />when his mother's asleep, <br />Father Doyle comes back to the Church <br />and rehearses in the dark <br />three hymns she long ago <br />asked him to sing at her funeral. <br /> <br />He practices the hymns <br />because the doctor said <br />she could go at any time. <br />When that time comes, <br />he doesn't want to miss a note. <br />The last thing she ever said was <br />'Son, I'll be listening.'<br /><br />Donal Mahoney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lifts-her-like-a-chalice/
