St. Christopher


There is a nick on your chin
From when you shaved your winter beard.
The blood congealed into a scab
That will heal into a scar.
Your smooth skin makes me
Imagine  you as a boy
on the playground
And I wonder
What  you were like then.
I think of myself as a shy little girl
Sitting on the soft
Green grass. Remembering the time I
Searched all day for my great grandmother’s
Gold St. Christopher’s locket.
The one I wore to my communion.
I lost it on the playground at school and
Desperately tried to find it in the grass.
I found it,
Against all odds,
Among the thousands of blades of grass.
I ran home
to show my mom,
Thanking God.

Note: A poem I wrote two years ago. I think two years is the amount of time I need to let my writing percolate and I feel ok showing it to the world.