The Screw Turns
The Screw Turns All Saints Day. After a sermon on Stephen, rain pelts like pebbles on the shed’s tin roof. The difference in Phillips and flathead, I say, marking the air with a cross, is that one keeps you from slipping off when the pressure mounts. She hefts the small but real Dewaults she got for turning five and finds the bit that fits. Tongue out, her breath comes in spurts, pink Champion shirt bent over the task even her lungs stop to watch. Stephen, too, never asked for help as the screw turned, never prayed that time speed up to get this over with. And if, looking on, I pray the opposite, forgive me, too. I know not w hat I do.