My Father's Saints Poem by Susan Lacovara

Pinching prayers into the polished beads
Of rosary in hand
They stand in row after row
A sea of souls
Bowing at the Basilica' s beauty
Tearful and joyfully rejoicing
The relics of saints
Set before their searching eyes
To spy a souvenir
Of divinity declared

On the backstreet bend
Of a seaside town
My father woke early and often
Sat by the statue of St. Jude
In sunlight serenity
Speaking truths his heart held with relevance
Sure there was a heavenly reward
For the faithful life he led
And at home in a carved out corner
Of a room blessed with belief
He, proud to display a makeshift alter
Where miracles grew from no explained reason

My mother had her reservations
But later in life resolved to receive
The Deacon' s weekly visitation
And put her fate into the highest hands
Before she entered out of her pain
And beyond the life left behind
For her children to confess
Is less about fear, more about faith

In the pocket of pants
Silver medallions
Scapulas strung from dressing room mirrors
Candles and bibles, prayer cards and crosses
All relegating a compassed path
To a greater understanding of what
Cannot yet be conceived
But benefically believed

I know of miraculous mending
Without question...
I have angels and answers
And reflection
And on this day when St. Peter's Sqaure
Basks in pageantry and processions
To the pontiff' s anointing and appointing
Recognizing the good in the common man
I think of my father as one of those good men
And then, of my father's saints