In Remembrance

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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.

Remembered.

Lived into our own Holy Thursday.

Over and over and over.

 

 

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Holly Grantham
Holly is a wife, very relaxed homeschooling mom of three boys, snapper of photos, coming of age writer and a soul drowning in grace. After years in Atlanta where she attended college, married the love of her life and lived in an intentional community, she found her way back to her home state of Missouri. She now lives in an antebellum stone house, raises chickens (sometimes) and pretends that she lives in the country.
Holly Grantham

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