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