The Miracle of Grapes

The children are flying. It’s a long steep road to the cathedral and they might have been late. Soon the cemetery will pass beneath them. Oxen on the road will shake their great necks as the children pass. The lines in father’s face lean to the left. His eyebrows curl wildly and point to the sky.

A donkey loaded with baskets tethers father to the earth. It’s been a long time since he was a child, but he will be one again soon. Outside the cathedral sleep a straw hat and a tuba, abandoned. To leave them like this means something else might come along.  And yoked to the road come two sad uncles, a pig savaged between them on a pole.

Now the vineyard begins rising to meet the children. The rest of the earth comes with it. The grapes are no longer attached to the hosts, their skin removed to make them speak sweetly. A great kindness appears to inhabit father’s elderly clothing. We have been given one more day. I count all the way to clouds before I lose track. It’s what father wants them to do for him that speaks.