the church bells
awaken
me
on Sunday morning.
they toll
not too far down
the road,
down the trail,
through woods,
fields,
across the bridge.
i can almost
feel
the tug of my mother's hand
on my foot,
telling me
it's time to go,
get ready for mass.
setting the envelopes for
the four of us
on the counter,
always an assortment
of coins
from her night
of waiting on tables,
nickels and dimes,
never
cash.
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