Making the Beds with God

Making the Beds with God

Doors bang open,
pairs of feet – shoes off in the garage –
run rabid towards
powder room and cookie drawer.

Books are lobbed onto countertops
There is shouting out,
but no one answers,
No one answers the children anyhow.

She is upstairs
creasing the corners
of the bed in the yellow room
folding over Life-saver candy sheets
flat-handed, crisp and precise.

As she stuffs pillows into cases,
she shares a cup of tea
with God.

What should I make for dinner? 
God answers, Meatloaf.
Will it rain tomorrow? Buckets.
What will my youngest grow up to be?

With a snap of the wrist,
she shakes out the bedspread.

Had God changed places
He would have lain down
with countenance covering
a cherry candy image,
exhausted
from questions she is asking,
answers she is seeking.

She is in training to save souls,
including her own.
But not today.

Today, she shares with God
chatting about her day –
phone calls, baking Easter bread,
too many damn tomatoes to can.
Books and torments are still being
tossed around downstairs.

She glances at the mirror,
sees herself, not her imperfections.
Her life has not been by accident,
but by creation –
a making of the bed.

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