Their Final Ascent

Ken Massicotte

In their final days 

climbing to mass each morning                     

the stone steps worn with prayer 

the studded oak doors, the nave

safety from all disquiet

vaulting the cleansing acclamation.

Their narrative a medieval tapestry: 

my mother’s Jesus enfolded, 

his tortured body in Mary’s lap.

My father still a boy with his satchel and cap 

lacing his hand-me-down skates to race

his brothers down the river to the Jesuit school.

They courted by rail before the highway came – 

the midnight train through the frozen shield,

bush, reservations and swamp,

beseeching arms like willow and birch 

weighting their sacrament after the war.

Gentleness and belief, 

the Sunday honour of hosting the priest,

silk and silver and golden relief

their ascendant horizon;

the devil in the basement

in a pool of shame.

Their children mostly wishing them well,

who taught themselves, fasted on silence;

mostly strong and free of bile,

their stories like gifted novels never read,

abandonment tales and blackout nights

and hard truths like stones 

piled in a corner of the field.

They knew but didn’t know, 

they cried but didn’t cry;

the tapestry showed little huts, 

warp threads hidden,

no gardens, flowers or birds. 

So far from the road 

you can just make out

the smoke of underground fires

where each child buried their red rage,

the scream of incredulity.

as they watched them weave

their rose-scented walk,

their final ascent.