Sign of the Cross
It “reversed the curse,” we were told.
You did it after waking and before turning in.
You did it when seated at a meal.
You did it when leaving and re-entering the house.
In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.
Some dipped into the font and exaggeratedly
tapped forehead, chest and shoulders.
For others, it was all in the wrist: an up-down,
right-left flick like a drip-style brushstroke.
A few pinched thumb and fingers, made intersecting
incisions in air, inches from the sternum.
The last time for me was the time
I was the last one with him. Life support
switched off, face spasms and eye twitches
stopped. There we were, father and the son.
I was at a loss for what to do.
Nothing between us was ever resolved.
So I traced the holy seal upon his brow,
and felt myself strangely absolved.