Church

In front of the parking garage, a total stranger 
accosts me with this question: Would you be interested 

in coming to my church? Wow. So, is there a better 
way to answer besides No thank you? Today, I belong 

to the church of throat lozenges and ginger tea 
and not turning on the news after dinner. Last 

weekend we went to the church where a pianist 
played two concerts and gave three miraculous 

encores as people leaped to their feet and gave 
ovation after ovation. On the wall next to my 

faithful rice cooker and altar of unwashed plates,
the setting sun has thrown coins of light through 

the blinds. I can retreat to my church of changing joys
and sorrows, where some nights my daughter volunteers

to cook dinner. My husband kneels to empty the water
drawer under the laundry machine. The sound of clothes 

spinning is backdrop to our conversations. When the door 
opens we catch the warm whiff of garments freshly cleaned.