Fragments of Saints

Nothing official,
no bones or splinters
that once touched someone.
Just pieces that mean
something personal.
Father Harry told
his angel story,
of a Communist
unbeliever who
rescued him, guided
him to a safe place.
I recall trumpets
of praise, pure tones
at her funeral
singing out, they said.
Now I hold the striped,
blue-flowered blanket.
Once, it smelled like her.
Now, I remember,
almost, that lost scent
as if it echoes.

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2 responses to “Fragments of Saints

  1. Connections to people who are gone are special to me, esp things I can touch and hold that belonged to a loved one

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