Always on Tuesday, Saint Anthony’s day,

I attend Mass at Saint Anthony’s church,

the littlest and farthermost of my town.

Indeed, it is more like a chapel.

Few people go there, they pray mainly

at Saint Vincent’s, in Central Square,

that looks as refulgent as a Cathedral.

They are unaware that the church I go to

was built on the ground of old, or better,

the oldest of our cemeteries.

I know that great-grandparents’ bones

are in the foundation of Saint Anthony’s.

And I firmly believe that

my ancestors dispense their blessings,

along with those of our Lord

and of the Saint of every Tuesday evening.

Published in “Whispers”,  February 02, 2016.

http://www.whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com