Lessened

Christ on a cross, nailed to the dirty beige wall,
looking over the bed, His pierced side bleeding,
frozen in posed agony.

He hadn't prayed to God, to Christ, in years.
He hadn't asked for the Virgin Mary, or any
of the saints to intercede on his behalf since,

well, who knows how long. That's a lie. He
remembers the last time. His mother dying
in a hospital, his father already dead.

When his father died his mother began to pray
as much as she could, began going to mass
every day. She was retired, it helped her,

but he couldn't help thinking of her as foolish.
Couldn't she see that he was never coming
back and no one was listening?

The doctors had told her it was just a matter
of time. She prayed more and more, wielding
faith as a defense against inevitability. He didn't

know why he kept Christ on his wall through all
of it. Perhaps, it reminded him of being a child,
thinking there had to be something better out there,

that enduring the cruelty of existence paid a greater
dividend. He remembers placing her favorite rosary
in her hands. He remembers time standing still.