Relics

I’ve read there was a time
when the pious venerated them
    bone of St. Peter’s little finger
    swatch of cloth from the Savior’s robe
    splintered fragment of the Holy Cross

But here in my house are the true relics
this bedroom floor rug
    Grandma wove from old clothes
on the shelf there a cast iron rooster bank
    my mother told me she prized as a little girl
here hanging in its place in the garage
    this garden rake
    handle worn smooth by Dad’s strong grip
and there against the wall the piano now long silent
    that she could bring to life
—Bach, old hymns, Scott Joplin, songs to sing with our daughter—tunes
happy and sad

Go ahead
    touch them
        carefully prayerfully
    with your fingers
            your hands

They are holy things.

—Ken Gibble, Greencastle, Pennsylvania, is a retired Church of the Brethren pastor. These days, instead of writing sermons, he writes poetry (mostly) and other stuff.

Family Photographs

They used to be kept in scrapbooks
large unwieldy strung together pages
with four glued-in-place holders
at each corner of the photo.
The pages were black.
My mother had a single purpose pen
she dipped in white ink
to write

    First Day of School
    Fun on the Beach
    Fishing Trip Success

so when you looked at the photo
and read the inscription
you caught a glimpse into a story
or at least a chapter of it.
“Wait! let me get a picture of that”
so the subjects pause for a moment
    in the horseshoe game
    or tossing the laughing toddler in the air
    or toasting marshmallows
and grin at the camera.

These were happy people doing happy things
and life stopped for an instant
    – click –
and then resumed.
Resumed with real life with worries about
where the money will come from to fix the furnace
and if Martha’s cough is just a cough
or—God forbid—TB.

Happy people doing happy things.

So why is it
looking at them now
I’m drenched in sadness?

—Ken Gibble