Jesús stood on the back porch
as my dad and I went
to the side door of the church.
It was our Sunday ritual,
arrive early,
check all the windows and doors,
to make sure nobody’d come in uninvited.
The sanctuary was quiet.
It greeted my nostrils
with the smell of fresh wax
on the hardwoods.
Light scored the floor
with a multicolored cross.
I’m standing there
all of eleven years old
wondering if God had
anything to do with
what seemed like an inside joke.
Out the window I see Jesús
wiping the sweat from his forehead.
He’s waiting for the kitchen to open.
The church ladies will fix coffee
and biscuits with homemade jams.
When Jesús comes around
they share some with him.
He’ll take a paper plate
with buttered, hot bread
and a Dixie cup
with its percolated contents.
Then he’ll disappear
out the side yard
until the next time.
I wonder where he goes.
When I ask my dad
he tells me “they”
have places where they go
to stay out of the heat.
I’d ask Jesús what he does all day,
but we don’t speak the same language.
My dad says “they”
have their ways of doing things
and it’s their business.
He says we don’t meddle
with how they live
and they don’t bother us
like it’s a formal agreement.
Sometimes my dad
gives Jesús little jobs
around the church building.
“He’s a yardman
and lays stones”
my dad says.
I wonder how my dad knows this.
He doesn’t speak a lick of Spanish.
But he gets
what it is he wants done
across to Jesús.
Jesús mows and lifts rocks.
His face never changes.
No smile, frown,
or look of apprehension.
Maria sometimes comes by
to check on Jesús.
She has a frown to beat all.
The church ladies say
they’d rather she didn’t come around.
I hear them call the frown
something more on the order of a scowl.
It scares them a bit
like maybe Maria’d forget herself
and snap on them.
There’s the story of her
going off on some lady
at the grocery store.
The lady had wondered aloud
how her tax money was being spent
and a made general comment
regarding people who spoke no English,
and were probable illegals,
getting benefits off her ass and all.
Well, surprise.
Maria understood
every word the lady said.
The lady was undone
when Maria
shook her hard earned
dollar bill, US currency,
in the now stunned lady’s face
and let her know in at least
two different languages
that she didn’t need a green card
cause she had been born
right here in this stinkin little town.
When the police arrived
Maria knew what time it was.
The store owner
said the lady
had only made comments.
It was Maria that got ugly
about things.
Nope. The church ladies
didn’t want to rile Maria.
She brought sandwiches and tea
by for Jesús.
She would stand and talk
all animated like
and anyone within earshot
would strain for a clue
to the meaning of her babble.
Jesús’ face never changed.
She could’a been saying,
“Your pants are on fire.”
or “You got a check
for a million dollars
in the mail today.”
You wouldn’t a known
cause for some mysterious reason
learning to speak Spanish
flipped right off your radar
as a necessary part of getting by.
My dad says
Jesús probably lets
what she says
go in one ear and out
the other.
Jesús finishes up
the mowing
and walks over to the rose bush.
He prunes it back
and sets things straight
for it to bloom again.
Maria arrives mid afternoon
with more tea and sandwiches
and a smile.
Jesús hands her
a perfect rose.
