Sackcloth and Ashes
Timothy was set apart
His mother wept
He wore his new blue suit
The fibers freshly woven and evenly spaced
He sat alone in the center of their circle
Closed his eyes and dropped his head
They laid their wrinkled hands on him
And told him to stay home
When what he wanted
What we wanted
What we thought God wanted
Was for him to travel far and preach the Word
and wear the fibers of his new suit thin
Instead, he tends the goats
On Fridays and Saturdays
At the park in Salt Lake
His suit hangs in his closet for Sundays
And temple days
Timothy likes the goats
But they are not his
Which is probably good because its easier to lose what you do not own.
Last week he came home
And lifted his chilly feet out of his mucky boots
By the kitchen door
He pulled his arms out of his jacket and hung it on the banister
I was pressing my fist into a triple batch of roll dough
“How was your day, Buddy?”
He answers,
Always,
With a cheerful
“Good!”
But he went on, as he pinched a piece of dough from the counter
“It was a little sad though.
One of the goats miscarried.”
He went on while I kneaded
Told how there were two of them,
One quite small and deformed
That’s probably why it didn’t work out
It struck me how mature he was
Witnessing his first miscarriage
And I prayed the prayer of a grandmother
As I slapped and turned the dough with
Equal measures of gratitude and pleading
Timothy wears a perpetual smile
A real one, that requires no forethought
He sleeps in his room alone at night
No companion but God himself
With the aid of an alarm clock
To get him up and on his knees before the sun rises
And because none of us has thought to buy him a barn coat
He wears his high school drumline jacket
To tend the goats
I lift it from the banister where he hangs it
Every Saturday night
And lay it in my washing machine
Where water,
By immersion,
Washes it clean
Every whit.
Timothy does his own laundry
But this one garment I keep for my own
Pre-Sabbath ritual
to wash away what stinks
Timothy’s barn sits up there on the hill
Where pioneers are celebrated
At the mouth of the canyon in Salt Lake City
Next to the blacksmith shop
I imagine the rhythmic pounding of hammer on anvil is a comfort to my drumline boy
He is happy to serve
Happier than we let him be
In his goat’s hair sackcloth
And the ashes of a Smithy.
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| Timothy's goats |
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| Timothy's coat |
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| Timothy's drums |
