Vespers

Vespers The hammer falls silent, a mourning dove coos in the pigeon house by the olive grove, and in the renovated church the bells ring for vespers. oo I close the ancient Book of the Sea to read from a pocket-sized manual of prayers, trading soundings and silhouettes of headlands for another anchorage: Now that the day hath run its course, I praise thee, O Holy One… And if my petitions for favor lead to an examination of the soul? Forty years ago, boarding a sailboat, I saw my father wind his watch around his wallet, a stripe of gold cinching a wad of leather, like an amulet. And when the mast snapped in a gust of wind, capsizing the boat, his watch and wallet sank to the bottom of the lake. What I remember from underwater were the bubbles of my breath rising to the surface, the taste of algae, the greenish tinge of the sun and sky. Thus a life of pure sensation passed before my eyes—and little has changed since then. Time and money, my father joked, rowing back to shore. To which I add: Into thy hands, O Lord Jesus Christ, my God, I commend my spirit…