by Terri Kirby Erickson
My maternal grandmother, widowed for years,
was a small, quiet woman who drank a cup
of Sanka in the late afternoons and took naps.
I cannot picture her feeling comfortable in her
parents’ primitive Baptist church what with all
the shouting and dire warnings of damnation.
She rebelled against it at some point, became
a Presbyterian whose members know how to sit
silently in their pews and listen to the preacher
talk about estate planning and heavenly rewards.
My mother, also a Presbyterian, and my father,
a Lutheran, settled on a Methodist compromise.
But after my brother died, Mom said her prayers
to Mother Mary more than God, often holding
one of the many rosaries Catholic charities sent
her in return for contributions. Not a Catholic,
she didn’t know what to do with them, but liked
the feel of the beads in her hands, the weight
of the cross. I have my mother’s rosaries now
and some of my own, one of which was blessed
by the pope. His image is everywhere since his
death, front and center on the news. But the clip
that moved me was of Pope Francis and a boy
who wanted to ask him a question yet was too
afraid to speak. Then the pope said whisper it
into my ear, his expression so tender, so full of
goodness and mercy, it unclenched a fist in my
chest that I did not know was there. This must
be how my grandmother felt when hell was no
longer mentioned, and why my mother prayed
to Mary, who knew the pain of losing a son.
was a small, quiet woman who drank a cup
of Sanka in the late afternoons and took naps.
I cannot picture her feeling comfortable in her
parents’ primitive Baptist church what with all
the shouting and dire warnings of damnation.
She rebelled against it at some point, became
a Presbyterian whose members know how to sit
silently in their pews and listen to the preacher
talk about estate planning and heavenly rewards.
My mother, also a Presbyterian, and my father,
a Lutheran, settled on a Methodist compromise.
But after my brother died, Mom said her prayers
to Mother Mary more than God, often holding
one of the many rosaries Catholic charities sent
her in return for contributions. Not a Catholic,
she didn’t know what to do with them, but liked
the feel of the beads in her hands, the weight
of the cross. I have my mother’s rosaries now
and some of my own, one of which was blessed
by the pope. His image is everywhere since his
death, front and center on the news. But the clip
that moved me was of Pope Francis and a boy
who wanted to ask him a question yet was too
afraid to speak. Then the pope said whisper it
into my ear, his expression so tender, so full of
goodness and mercy, it unclenched a fist in my
chest that I did not know was there. This must
be how my grandmother felt when hell was no
longer mentioned, and why my mother prayed
to Mary, who knew the pain of losing a son.
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven full-length collections of poetry, including Night Talks: New & Selected Poems (Press 53), which was a finalist for (general) poetry in the International Book Awards and the Best Book Awards. Her work has appeared in a wide variety of literary journals, anthologies, magazines, and newspapers, including “American Life in Poetry,” Asheville Poetry Review, Atlanta Review, JAMA, ONE ART, Poetry Foundation, Rattle, The SUN, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Verse Daily, and many more. Among her numerous awards are the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize, Nautilus Silver Book Award, Tennessee Williams Poetry Prize, and the Annals of Internal Medicine Poetry Prize. She lives in North Carolina.
