April Prompt #6


 in which the initial subject disappears




Holy twelve year olds, our confirmation

dresses washed and put away, Pam and I

sat together in the quiet dark church

for our assigned hour, watching with Christ

in Gethsemene.

Light through the east window barely colored

the fair linen with blue, the brass pulpit

and the brass eagle gleamed a little.

The red light burned by the tabernacle

that on Friday would be empty, the way

the tomb would empty on Easter morning.

I read the story again from my new gilt-edged bible:


Jesus was forsaken by his friends.

I was sure I would never forsake him.

The story was so sad.

He was so lonely.


Pam and I talked about everything those days:

Camp Fire Girls and fairy tales.

God, and how we wanted to be writers.

Pam had a big brother instead of a little one.

Her black hair was curly instead of straight.

Pam’s parents had unusual names.

Her father Hill delived fuel oil and played the carillon.

Her mother Bunty was Canadian.

Maybe that’s why Pam put ketchup on her French toast.


Sometimes I think about Pam

when Maundy Thursday comes around.


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