Prose Poetic Bloomings

 

Sunday Morning at Jake’s

 

Sometimes when the blank page seems intimidating and my thoughts whirl about me like clothes in a washing machine, I think KISS, keep it simple sweetheart. So I’ll write what’s around me. I’m sitting here, on a Sunday morning at 817 AM. I have 24 minutes until I have to get things ready to get my care givee up at 9:30. He’s a man with autism and requires full-time care. His parents are away at one of their grandchildren’s sporting events. I have to stay here, at their house, because Jake’s routine must be kept as strictly as possible. He likes me and likes to be at my home though I’m not sure why. He listens to the same movie every time he’s at my house, Santa Claus is Coming to Town. Today I drop him off at his church so I can go to mine. He has his own room at his church with a TV and movies. I’m not sure what he watches there. When he is given an opportunity to go to the restroom, he takes a detour and goes into the sanctuary and runs down the aisle right in the middle of Pastor’s sermon and gives him a high five. Pastor very congenially greets him and tells the congregation to say God bless Jake and they do and he runs back out and down to his room. But before I take him to church, I pick up my hubby who will be waiting for me to take him to church. So here as I write my poem in my friend’s beautiful home surrounded by her collections: I love Lucy, old lamps and dolls and decorative plates, photos, and a poem I wrote about prayer, I have just a few minutes, then I have to do everything I need to do in order and perfect timing to get to us all to church by 10:30.