Communion with Babcia

Blue and black floral house dress sleeve to elbow and hem to shin. Powder blue, teal and pink apron, pockets stuffed with used yet useful tissue. Gray-white hair pulled back in a small efficient bun resting on the middle of her neck. Purple red lips the color of slow circulation, shiny-moist and made for gentle kisses. Small eyes beneath a brow testifying to decades–gems of bright darkness glowing hard and steady toward me. Through me. Surrounding me.

She shuffles forward minding her balance, teetering tall upon the linoleum floor so long familiar with her form.

She speaks like an owl and parts heavy arms folded in tired flesh. Spreading with the knowledge and confidence of Mother. Punctuating joyous tones that tell of

worth

assurance

home.

Ritual follows as she bends, prayerfully enclosing my warm cheeks in the vice of her loving palms. Life lines transmit mute tales about crossing oceans, baking bread, mending tattered clothes and tending to any duty time demanded.

No word spoken and no sentiment received, I squirmed away, satisfied in just being her favorite and unaware of a parallel passage opened between us. A passage filled with the commerce of the universe, through which a trickle of angel dust leaked, ever so gradually, into my subconscious through the years to come.

She stood back and receded again into the corner between the sink and the stove. Patiently she would await my return on another Sunday soon, to repeat the ritual.

Suddenly she was gone.

But not before she had deposited enough dust in those furtive moments on Sundays that the effect long outlasted her earthly departure.

Worth.

Assurance.

Home.

Angel dust.

It has come time that I minister as well. The passage leads on through others.