Hey Alexa

“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.