Days That Are Holy

Easter Sunday, 1960

My little sister has long blonde ringlets,
a pale yellow dress with crinolines,
and a pinafore.
New shoes, hers patent leather,
mine my first Princess heels.
I have a tan fuzzy sailor hat with a wide round brim,
immaculate white gloves, to the wrist,
my first lipstick,
and a permanent, which transforms my hair
from straight and lanky
to something bouncier,
with curls.
I feel reborn, and hopeful;
it is a time of transformation.

We gather out front to see and be seen,
then we file through the heavy doors
into the vestry,
dip fingertips
into the holy water font,
genuflect respectfully
towards the tabernacle,
and climb the creaking stairs to the choir loft.

The sun is shining through the stained glass
and it feels like
Resurrection morning.
All my life, it has rained on Good Friday
and been sunny on Easter morning.

The priest and altar boys file in,

the incense censer on chains is swung

towards the congregation.
All is hushed reverence,
rustling, pages turning,
muffled coughs.
The Apostles Creed rings out,
and all are on bended knee
as the Agnus Dei sounds.

And then, from the choir loft,
magnificently,
our hearts swelling,
voices blending and soaring,
bass, alto, soprano,
the Hallelujah Chorus rings out,
above the bowed heads of the faithful,
hearts rise,
angels bend near to hear
the joy of Easter
rising
in all hearts.

I posted the last few lines of this for the Pantry, but decided to post this as well, written last Easter. In keeping with the day, and with memories of the Easters of my youth.

Day 5 of Poem a Day April