by Eugene Platt
In idyllic days before breast cancer crept into our home,
upsetting its serenity, eventually leaving us alone
at opposite ends of eternity, going to church
on Sundays was part of our romance.
Week after wistful week, I return to Saint James
and sit in the same pew, although without you
sitting beside me, shoulder to shoulder,
thigh to thigh, our fingers entwined.
The setting is sacred but bereft
of something sorely missed.
It is and is not the same.
You would be pleased, though, to know the liturgy
has not changed, the congregation still affirms
its faith in the words of the Nicene Creed,
words we said in unison with others.
Most of the hymns are familiar to me,
although it is hard to sing lines like
“Joyful, joyful we adore Thee,”
when I cannot see you peripherally.
The setting is sacred but bereft
of something sorely missed.
It is and is not the same.
In deference to you, I take the Eucharist,
kneeling pitifully at the altar rail—
surely, with grace this cannot fail
to assuage the anguish within.
From the emptying churchyard I drive home along
oak-canopied Fort Johnson Road, then our street,
a twenty-minute trip that once was beatific
with anticipation of love before lunch.
The drive is scenic but bereft
of something sorely missed.
It is and is not the same.
Eugene Platt, an active octogenarian, was born in Charleston, South Carolina. After serving in the Army, he earned a Diploma in Anglo-Irish Literature at Trinity College Dublin. He lives in Charleston with his main muses: Montreal-born wife Judith, corgi Bess, cats Finnegan and Maeve.