Haibun

Christmas Mass

I'm twelve years old and am getting ready for the 6:00 a.m. Christmas Mass.  It's still dark and the bedroom is cold.  I'm in the church choir and must be there for this early Mass and again at 11:00 a.m.  My father is already up.

"No breakfast for me," I say.  "I'm taking communion."

He has his coffee and a chunk of bread and says he's coming with me.

"Why?" I ask.

"It's dark outside.  It's not safe.”

My father never went to church.  Although raised as a Catholic, he often questioned the church's authority and the demands placed upon the parishioners. Will he come inside, I wonder.  I try to picture him kneeling, bowing his head, praying, sitting through the sermon.

I'd rather be alone, I think to myself.  I'm not a baby.  But I say nothing.

After a twenty-minute walk through empty streets we reach St. Anthony's.  Brightly lighted, decorated with pines and poinsettias, the pews are only half full. My father sees me up to the choir loft, then gives me money to buy a roll at the Jewish bakery on the way home.

"You're not staying?" I ask.

"No.  It won't be dark after Mass.  You'll be O.K. coming home."

Relieved, yet disappointed, I join the other choir members.

voices sing out

through stained glass windows

the rising sun

Simply Haiku

 

                                                               FAMILY TRIPS   

 

Summer vacation, as a young child in New Haven, means days spent on the schoolyard, a local playground or on neighborhood streets.  When my father isn’t too tired, outings by trolley to the beach on Sunday or to the amusement park at Savin Rock in West Haven.  A supper of fried clams, soft shell crab or pizza ends the day.

 

Overnight trips away from New Haven are rare and short.  The occasional one night stay-over in New York City to see the Rockets at Radio City Music Hall or a relative’s wedding in the Bronx.

 

The longest trip we take is a week-long vacation with my mother’s older sister and her husband.  My uncle drives the six of us to the Desert of Maine.  We share a two room cabin, my parents, my sister and I in one room, my aunt and uncle in another. 

 

I am seven and my sister nine, and neither of us is diplomatic regarding the arrangements made by my aunt and uncle. The cabin is too small.  Why is there a sink in one bedroom, a cooking stove and ice-box in the other? Why are the toilet and shower outside? The sand is too hot.  I want to go home.

 

We whine and my aunt nags.  She nags her husband, my mother, my sister and me.  For some reason she leaves my father alone.

 

shifting dunes

the lone man takes

a new direction

 

 

Presence, Winter 2011