Anna's Place

Anna’s Place

She doesn’t know who I am

I’m not sure if she knows that she is - 

Her dad does.

With certainty, he locks the wheels of her chair

A man who has done this a thousand holy times

Still facing her, he slips past and sits on the century-old bench,

With threadbare cushions and

Stain bare patches - worn off by sweaty elbows of saints who sat and prayed,

And listened long before.

Three rows from the front.

This is Anna’s place.

She doesn’t know who they are.

Some smiling, others blissfully unaware.

Still others with no place to look, or glance, or stare.

Her dad does.

Gently, he brushes her hair from her face

With hands moulded by years of steady grace.

He squeezes her small, cupped hand, a sacred shell

From years of learning to love her well. 

His eyes joyfully singing a melody known only to him

Three rows from the front.

This is Anna’s place.

She doesn’t know what time it is. A minute? An hour?

Restless motion… slow erosion…

Her head slips loose from its careful position.
Who will see?

Who will notice?

Who will steady what silently tilts?

Her dad does.

With the same hands that locked her wheels into place,

Brushed her hair from her face,

Now moves her head back to the brace

All without a trace.

Three rows from the front.

This is Anna’s place.

I don’t know who they are.

I’m not sure if I know that I am.

My Father does.

He brings me to my seat.

Wipes the sweat from the dust and heat. 

Calms the storm in my restless feet.

My Father smiles, a kindness deep. 

A promise He intends to keep.

I see His face. 

His grace.

In Anna’s face.

Three rows from the front.

Three rows from the front.

Three rows from the front.

This is Anna’s place.

Here is Anna's place.