by Peter Gallaher
It was a privilege to carry home
Our Lady of Fatima Friday afternoon
And find a place for her
A place of signal honor
To rest in plaster majesty
A guest of the family.
Called forward in the third grade
Near November’s end by Sister
Teresa, who sweetly said,
“You have been chosen Mister
Gallaher to bring Our Lady home,”
I shouldered the Mother of God
Down the stairs to the schoolyard
And carried her alone
About a mile in an early winter storm.
“I brought Mary home,” I said
When my own mother opened
The door. I had used Mary’s head
To knock, praying, hoping
Nothing would chip. “We have her
For the weekend,” I gasped. “Oh, dear,”
Mom said, reaching out to take
The Queen of Heaven before she’d break
From my rough treatment of her.
She’d rested against the fence
On the bridge over the railroad tracks
While we’d more than once
Tried dropping rocks into the stacks
Of great black engines at rest below
Herself patient in the settling snow.
Me and Eddie Coyle counted the dents
In his father’s ‘52 Desoto. His Dad drank
At Angie’s bar on the corner, was friends
With my father and always stank
Of cigarettes and sen-sen. She
Waited quietly for us to finish the count.
Then I took off and her with me
To Rosanov’s Candy Store where the right amount
Could buy a boy any number of treats
Mister Rosanov simply said,
“Such a nice Jewish girl you bring
Me. Deserves a treat Mr. Red Head.
Come, take what you want for both,
Only don’t tell Grocer Roth.”
I produced a Hershey bar for Mom
When I got home with Mary
“Where does all this come from?”
She asked, putting her on the chair we
Kept for Nanny’s visits to the house.
“Sister Teresa told me to,” I replied
While Mom blotted Mary with her blouse.
“The candy bar,” she glared. “Don’t lie,”
She added, pretty angry. I began
“Mister Rosanov said I could. So I
Took some bars of candy and ran
Home with the statue and this for you.”
I took her hand and swore it was true.
Mom relaxed. “Where will she go?”
She asked looking around.
The place never seemed so
Old as it did then on the ground
Floor in the back alley
Furnished with odds and ends.
Mostly odds. “Do you think we
Should bring our night stand
From the bedroom and put her on that?”
We did and once we covered up
The rings made by coffee cups
And water glasses Mary sat
Pretty in the corner near the radiator
Where we dried wet socks and gloves
When we didn‘t use the stove.
When Dad finally came home from Angie’s
And we had eaten our Friday meal
We gathered and prayed together
The only time I remember.
Monday, I took her back to school
She came for the weekend. That was the rule.
