Amen to What Remains

Winter down in Cajun Country. Seventy-five, the air feels thin.

Doors upon swing open slowly like they've known us all along back then.

Last Christmas before we scattered, I can see it in their eyes.

Tears don't fall, they rise up quiet like a prayer nobody tries.

Forty, fifty souls together. Same two pews for half a life.

First ones in and last ones breathing through the mercy and the fight.

What will the priest say Sunday morning when those benches fill the space?

When silence answers louder than the hymns we used to raise?