The Mother's Board

Callaloo 19.1 (1996) 101-106

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THE MOTHER'S BOARD

Opal J Moore

  \ The church my grandfather made still stands at the corner of State Street and Indiana at the corner of childhood. He left this to me: Garden of Eden finite Paradise between knowledge and innocence, Garden of Gethsemane hidden place of prayer before the trial, outcomes already known. The secret of Love: how Eve must be routinely driven out of Paradise bearing the gift of pain and her own thoughts stolen, which is forbidden and the end of Paradise for new generation Eves who are always only eight or nine when I get a clue dropped in my lap on a Sunday morning unannounced, wrapped in ordinary sunshine fuzzy heat smothering me like a light blanket swaddled about my head, without warning except maybe the way Pastor can't get an amen for a lame sermon can't walk without a cane and I am listing uneasily into sleep in the sun hardback chair beneath a window propped open with a songbook false note tuning in my ear. Maybe the sun is too warm, maybe that is why the two church mothers, the oldest members who always sit at the Pastor's left hand bother themselves to sit one Sunday on his right. I am uneasily aware of this heat, of the mothers' faces  turned away from Pastor, of his lame sermon, let the church say amen, of the mothers' arms crossing grand bosoms, of their faces always plumply creased, heaven-assigned, kind, benign . . . of old women sharp, waiting, cool as paper silent. Absent, the chime of the mothers' amen, my sweet jesus, thank you heavenly peacemaker. . . . Stranded Pastor's words puffed out of his mouth, settled upon us like sawdust, sifted down from the pulpit like dustmotes choke down a shaft of sunlight, the mothers' silence, so cool, slowly gathering as beads of water upon a chilled glass bowl. Cool tears for Pastor of the dry throat in the dry pulpit preaching against the mothers to relent relinquish silence bow down in Paradise as it is written, say amen! \\ Silence is forbidden reserved for the gods cloak for their mysteries no wonder a Pastor hurls rebuke at haughty silences two grand mothers ought to know better disturbing a natural order like that refusing to speak their lines sitting without permission at his right hand  when always they were seated to the left when a pastor-owned bible slams shut squishing ungodly silences all novice Eves must awaken look alive pay attention. \\\ Loose these satans! Go, I say, I cast you out! One wing of his robe is lifted up then the other a mighty dark angel descending hurling thunder flash words perhaps her humming stirred him idle, tuneless, the sound of a woman dreaming darning socks at the window, or a wire strung tight vibrating on the air, or a taut string plucked, set shivering. she rocks back in her chair holding a quivering hum inside her somewhere back of her eyes cool smooth flat lids folded down like brown paper she hums louder perhaps the humming stirred him to a rage, a pitch, a fire so steady impervious private, womanish, seemed enough to defeat a man Deacons! remove these demons take them out of my church the mothers seemed to vibrate  \\\/ the deacons sized up the situation: 2 mothers, 2 small mountains in chairs and naturally hesitated the corners of their mouths pull down no way out of this duty to serve the word of God sent down through a man chosen among men no way to refuse and be called men of God the demons sit heavy in their chairs oh god. half steps slow tipping up into a woman's hum: will you blaspheme in God's house? 2 black wings lifting up /// his brazen touch is release she stands brushing off his hands lift off quick startled as 2 black birds startle into air she yields carries her 63 years into exile leaving her sister more amply pressing the point, hard gristle fat weighing...