Abstract
Each month we’d pray before another casket. The nuns filed us across the street from school. I kicked at the waves that spared me at Nantasket. I wanted to share pain, not so much mask it. A wooden pointer honed my knuckles into wood. Each month I’d stretch to touch a different casket. Openfaced soul or sealed from breath by a gasket, what stuff I learned at school never hit me like the thunder I felt swimming Nantasket. Once, deeper than flowers, a great big fruit basket, the smell draped the sobs and tears like a comfy throw buoying up the casket. If I ever trip into heaven I’ll ask it if I truly helped those I prayed before, if it was like kiss-stopping a drop of Nantasket. By 4th grade I had cozy-knelt beside so many dead I never knew. Where would I find the joy to pray with someone I loved, housed in a strange casket?
Sign-in/Register to access full text options 
Talk to us
Join us for a 30 min session where you can share your feedback and ask us any queries you have
Schedule a call
