for love and wonder are the same thing
HOLY WATER
At Easter every year
the priest poured a small vial of it
for each family in the parish
my grandmother pouring hers
into a silvery blue font
inside her bedroom door
a little pocket of Heaven
into which she dipped her hand
each time she entered the room
touching just her fingertips
to the ordinary water
blessed by the priest
and surely blessed also
by my grandmother
as she took the water
to her forehead and to her heart
and then to each shoulder
of her plaid housedress
then pressed her fingertips
to her mouth
for a quick kiss
never stopping, never breaking her stride
as she balanced a pile of folded towels
or swept my grandfather’s slippers
to their place beside the bed,
or gave me the fancy hairbrush
she kept on top of the bureau
my grandmother never wondering, it seemed,
what miracle had transpired
to make the water holy
perhaps her wonder taken entirely
by the powdery smell of the towels
or the clean scent of my hair
but that would be to doubt
the capacity of my grandmother
for wonder, for love,
for love and wonder are the same thing,
what the priest felt, I believe,
as he held his hands above the water
and felt the transformation
from the tips of his fingers
and all down his arms
as the water changed God
into something close, and ordinary,
and simple, and here.
-Suzanne Cleary, from Beauty Mark, BkMk Press, 2013
