I always wondered how it would feel as a young girl
to run to my mother sitting in her wooden rocking chair.
I'd tug on the hem of her skirt and stare up into her bright
brown eyes wondering, pondering, and then asking,
"Were you ever baptized?"
She'd smile, embarrassed maybe, and pull me into her lap.
"Of course I was, sweetie," mother would say with conviction.
As if it was a given, an obvious answer, like how she worked to feed us
and that father would be home soon.
"How was it?"
Then she would tell me about her experience.
. . . . . . . . .
"There was the fragrance of daffodils all around
and the ripples around me as I was placed in the water
were refreshing and comforting..."