“Do you want to say your prayer
before I start the sleepcast?”
I asked my daughter.
“Sure,” she said.
“Hey Alexa…”
Quickly recovering,
she tried again.
“Dear Heavenly Father…”
and on she went
but not before my mind
had taken a tangent
which led to a
post-apocalyptic tribal wasteland:
She is the widowed matron
of a small clan -
children, grandchildren, cousins, neighbors, orphans -
flitting between fleeting senses of safety.
At night, she gathers the young
while the strong stand guard
and tells stories of
lessons from Sunday school
mixed with memories of home.
Both
a creative and loving God
and an electronic communicative algorithm
are equally far fetched
to my grubby great-grandchildren.
“Will they believe
in either
or both?”
I wonder,
trying to recall
when I was 9
if I had folded my arms at church
and recited the pledge of allegiance
or if I had stood in front of the flag at school
and started, “Dear Heavenly Father.”
I’ll have to tell her that story
the day after tomorrow.
