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As a white girl who did not grow up in the place she was born I have always been envious
Of region with ritual
and tight knit diversities.
Repetition with a nod.
I salute you
My brother. My sister.
Ritual for me was the same church pew on Sunday. Tiny pencils for sketching and fried chicken around 1:00.
Later, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner.
My parents read the newspaper.
Sunday sections of glossy adds and shopping for the week ahead.
My mother had a file.
In alphabetical order.
Which she carefully matched winding her way through the grocery aisles. On a Tuesday or Wednesday.
We had our own cobbled together rituals as a singular family unit.
Set the table.
Take your seat.
Give thanks.
Sometimes I dream of the desert.
I admire headscarves and robes
and songs in languages I don’t understand.
Your temple.
Are a temple.
Shouts of joy and the children are carrying flags.
The wind is blowing.
Someone left a window
On the wrong side of the room.
My brother. My sister.
I have watched the men kneel and pray at sunset. Rows of 3 and 4.
I did not know if they looked at their watches
Or just the sky.
Time is eternal and internal after all.
The old ways.
New to me.
Saluting from the sidelines.
Reveling in ritual.

One thought on “Salute.

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