In Remembrance


Image shows a group gathered around a dinner table. The text reads "Broke bread. Remembered. Lived into our own Holy Thursday."

We are cloistered now

and I rarely know what day it is.

The hours, the minutes, they keep folding over

onto themselves.

The days are all so quotidian

but I’ll be damned if I am any

more virtuous.

I am woefully inept at navigating a pandemic.

To pass time, I bake bread.

It doesn’t rise and I swallow pride

but my middle son

he breaks it

slathers it with Irish butter

declares it good.

I take in the sight of him.

He towers over me now with a

Romanesque nose I do not recognize.

And I laugh.

Perhaps, the story of this lifetime of days

confined, together

will be marked, henceforth, by the

shape of our love.

How we quietly heeded a new commandment.

Broke bread.


Lived into our own Holy Thursday.

Over and over and over.