Daniel

He stood at the back of  his old Church, wanting to join in with the congregation.
Everyone followed the priest,
I confess to almighty God, and to you my brothers and sisters, that
I have sinned through my own fault in my thoughts and in my words ...
He looked for her. The back of many black-haired heads made
his stomach upset. Heads all bent.

He glimpsed her thick plait curled on her shoulder by
the end of the Penitential Act. Moving, he saw her.
Always in a sari. Always with her mother.

Their son sat up on the altar, his shoes shinier
than all the other boys. His mother would have shone
them with Kiwi shoe polish and an old brush. The sound
would wake him. She must be watching him to keep
his face still. Her son on the altar at Morning Mass.

Their daughter was hand-in-hand with mother and
grandmother. Her two plaits shone with oil. After
the shoes, her mother would have woken and washed
her for Mass. She would tell the small girl Stop crying!
while tightly plaiting her thick-oiled hair.

He left before Communion started, walking down the road to the bus stop.