Sunday mornings are filled with the low, soft mewling of my father's songs. Old hymns from Jamaica. He's a pastor's son, you see. Church was his home. The Gospel was his language. Heaven was his destination. I'd wake up to hear an organ playing, if he was really feeling the Spirit. Or for mellow moments, his guitar.
Sunday mornings had my mother on the prayer line. Connecting and communing with mighty women who sought God in life and could invoke angels to earth. Her hair would still be in curlers but her Bible was opened, and ready.
They made sure my first words were God.
- sunday mornings
YOU ARE READING
passenger
Poetry(poetry and short story collection) "please come home" / my body and soul long to shatter the dissonance and become , one.
