Worship

All the crosses in your house

that smelled like spices and

holiness made it hard not to

church you.

The wooden chairs we’d

sit on and the Latin

from your lips as we

cooked together and

painted each other in

the best ways we could imagine

are hard to forget.

Piano music rang

throughout the halls of your

small, suburban corner home as you

played notes that would bring

tears to the eyes of

anyone’s proud mother.

But since you’ve been gone

it’s been hard for me to remember

that God doesn’t look like

a college student.

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