OLD WOMEN SINGING

This Sunday morning, I’ll sit outside
and listen to the old women sing.
Falsetto voices mix with raspy croaks
to tell a deeper story. In their voices,
I hear the whoops of young girls
skipping rope, giggling when
a cute boy passes. The soft lilt
of the first words of flirtation
turning to scorn when suitors
turn away. The breathy excitement
as “I will” becomes “I do”
and a voice that quickly sings a gentle lullaby.
The 3am whispers that plead for rest
while another life grows in her belly.
Tears of joy and anger when it all
becomes too much. A hushed prayer
to lift this burden if only for a while
answered by the cries of an infant
child of her own daughter. Sitting in a pew
on Sunday morning, holding this new
life about to be washed in the water, smiling
as together they listen to the old women sing.