Easter

My grandson, ten, 
hates the rain, 
as he does this Sunday morning 
when dark clouds bring the sky down.
He announces that he is not going to church:
“I’m anti-Christian.” 
His mom says, 
“Nevertheless, get dressed. 
It’s Easter.” 
“You know I don’t believe 
all that gobbledygook,” 
he replies. 
“Don’t forget to tie your shoes,” 
she says. 

Later at church I see him play 
with the baby 
in the next row, then snuggle 
against his pro-Christian mother. 
At times during the hymns 
and the sermon, 
he listens 
while pretending not to. 

In the foyer following church he 
bends to touch the face of a 
Down’s Syndrome toddler, echoing 
her small slow vowels. 

On the way home, 
we see a dead raccoon 
on the road. 
He asks to stop 
so we can bury it. 
The rest of the way home, he is quiet, then 
as we turn the last corner, he says, 
“I hope it gets resurrected.”