Jim Beam was kept in the barn. Drinking was devil’s

work. It was Grandma’s conviction, confident

as Grandpa’s need to sow beans today. This Easter she’ll harvest

faithfulness for her children and Church. Bending low

to kiss her cheek, lilac scents float, lingering

as she looks in the mirror to arrange her hat. On the white

dress is a lavender orchard, violet veins so thin,

so delicate, a halo forms around its edge. At church the pastor

praises the risen word in robes of white and gold

where glimpses of decorated eggs are hiding

among the threads. The eggs will have to wait

for faith, Grandma and God’s word. Beans

planted, Grandpa will not wait his ceremony. In his

robe of bibbed, blue, denim overalls and a miter

of straw, on his knees he hides colored eggs,

his rite of faithfulness. So begins our rituals.

A kneeling rail isolates the altar where white

lilies frame an empty cross looking down

on the disciples’ images beneath. We take

the right aisle. Heads under Easter hat’s pause

to chat or nod, then we all proceed

to the front pews. The hymnal is scarcely

open when the organ begins. Down the left aisle

golden robes proclaim, He arose, He arose. At the altar

they become angels against white clouds, rapt. I jingle

the quarter in my pocket for the collection plate, and barely notice

the hymn’s end, the pastor’s “Amen”. With a nudge

then a poke Grandma points. The collection

plate has passed us by. She stares at my quarter

still in my hand. She points to the aisle,

“now go.” Newly polished shoes reflect bonnets

as I race the plate to the rail and think of Grandpa

resting, reflecting on his work as I make

my first deposit in the bank of God.