He did not come to kneel.
Not in the way they taught him,
not in the way he used to,
small palms pressed together
at Nonna’s side,
her rosary a whisper
between Hail Marys and recipes.
But he came anyway,
bare soul and swollen heart,
footsteps echoing in marble hush,
where stained glass caught the sunlight
and painted him holy,
even in his doubt.
Grief sat beside him
in the pew,
uninvited but familiar.
The kind that wears his family’s face,
their laughter now dust,
their warmth now scattered
in unsaid things and
rooms left quiet.
He wept,
not for answers,
but for the ache of not knowing
where to place his love anymore.
He had wandered for years,
through crystals and cards,
through moonlit mantras
and silent wishing.
All of it helped,
but none of it held him
the way this stillness did.