Sundays we’d climb the hill

threading our way

on the worn path,

fern banked, sprinkled

with pine needles,

damp breezes lifting off the lake,

sun slipping

through pines and cedars.

A line of girls in blue chambray shirts

with sailor collars edged in white,

we’d take our orderly seats

on split-log benches

strewn with hymnals.

Circled around the fire pit,

we’d wait for Althea to say,

“Open to Hymn 66.”

Every Sunday we would start there.

“We gather together

to ask the Lord’s blessing.

He chastens and hastens

his will to make known.”

Every Sunday I would

fly off my bench,

flit between the pines and birches,

God chasing me

in a game of tag.

Peg Edera