Roux

It is one of those mornings. 

Cool, warm at the same time.

I walk into church having been away for a spell.  Sunshine on my back.  The church dark, oak.  The Spanish kind.  Old French glass streaming color onto faces. Our hues — rose, amber viridian.  Borrowed spirits. 

Everyone looking good, good morning-ing everyone else across pews and aisles. 

The sight, sound, smell of the place makes me think how small and low a roux I let my life boil down to being away.  How okay life really is where it counts.  Might even make sense once in a while.  Life too short to hold a grudge I chide myself filing down the aisle. 

W. and T. say hello to me.  W. surprises me.  Stands.  Gives me a hug.  I thought she and I weren’t talking, that she’s still mad at me.  I dive in. Snatch a deep breath too.  Smell oil perfume on her neck.  Patchouli. 

It is not a yoga breath, therapy breath I take, but an ancient breath.  The kind breathed before by others. 

Leftover church air, I do not know where from. 

Lungs of Christ, bought over in the fold of someone’s robe.  Maybe Buddha’s, Tsao’s, Gandhi’s, Martin’s, elder Rachel’s, Sarah’s, Mary’s, W.’s, T.’s.

Borders be damned.

A time from before I was born.  Angel air, pre-breath whisper wished into my essence, into babies, the best and worst of us, our parents, forebears, mixed with our highest good, bid from Heaven.  Who I am meant to be, want to be at my journey’s end.

A good day to begin again.

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