Sundays with God (and you)
We would cross paths every Sunday, where you would have your hands clasped before you, and I’d have mine in my lap, as you would be praying, and I would pray, too.
I’d pray with my eyes opened and my palms upward, waiting and hoping that God would lay His hand in mine for a diminutive minute. You’d pray like the others, but I am waiting for something more divine. God is there, and I want to see. God is unseen by our mortal’s eyes, but I’d still try.
I also like to peer into your eyes from afar, every Sunday, you in different shirts and pants, with the same glasses and the same smile. We were strangers, but you are one of the very few constant things in my life.
I would sit in the middle, and you’d sit somewhere in the front or the back, anywhere that is not beside me. We are just strangers, after all. We keep it close to our hearts, how we know each other by appearances and not names.
You’d laugh at your sister’s jokes amidst the priest’s preachings. I assume that either your sister is just so interesting, or you just couldn’t grasp the meaning behind his preachings. Nonethelessly, I’d die to have you see me.
But my lips are dry, and my voice is dying, and I can only hope to scream your name in silence.
When you would distract me, God would tap me in the back, and turn my attention to Him. I’d listen to the priest, and recount how God had created us out of everything that is breath-taking and ethereal, as that is what He is made of. We were supposed to be an image alike to Him. But we are not, as He is divine, and we are everything that is of flaws.
Every Sunday, we’d cross paths and we would see each other. Our eyes would meet, and perhaps our hearts long to touch each other. How strange it may seem, as we are only strangers, whose wishes are locked to our pride and ego of not wanting to do the first “Hello,”.