It was the copper-green crust on 

salt fingers that hinted

the well was dry.

It had been months, years even,

of arid unconscious blessings.

A ritual, like the quick of bitten nails,

formed in the dousing of us weans.

 

It had been our mother’s blessing, 

foreheads drenched on each departing. 

Her three fingered aspergillum

observed from the flickering neon.

Blessing us all out, she’d sleep light

to roll-call us all safely back home.

 

It had been that holy font

she’d gifted to our new home. 

A lone sentry on reverent duty 

that our kids debunked.

No more than a mild curiosity,

to dunk, like their belief.

Just not too deep.

 

It was her rosary, silvered black, 

clasped on her mortal hands, that ended

this mother’s prayer.

It was months, years even,

before I’d the strength to dip back. 

By then, the font was bone dry.  

Long been emptied of her.