“There was also a prophetess, Anna, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She never left the temple.”

There is a fabric I associate with you 
and two colors: that turquoise, bright green 
and that blue-gray color of Lake Superior 
on a cloudy Fall day when seen from the hill. 
The colors you wore
with those flower-print blouses 
and utterly unfeminine black leather round shoes 
with a collection of dust at the seams. 
Where did you even live? 
Because never once, for who knows
how long, did I walk into that church
and you were not fastened
to that same pew. Even 
on my aunt’s wedding day, whom you did not know, 
I remember seeing you with my small little eyes 
as I carried up some silk pillow
hoisting up rings that, years later, 
would be replaced by others. 
“She worked as a sacristan” was one of five phrases in your whole obituary, 
aside from the list of those who survived you: your godchild, 
some priest and a special friend named Carole. 

Why were you there? 
Was it devotion or desperation or dull loneliness; was it mysticism or grief 
which all so easily fold into one another, rooted
as they are in a long slow wait 
for the return of an embrace?