Healer
Jennifer Blair
When he retired, the faithful
streamed after him with pies—
mindful ladies who would gasp
in horror to be ungrateful lepers
caught not returning. So they
remembered him, especially on
holidays, seeking out the rain
gutted gravel drive for the sake
of their healed daughters and
husbands and sons and their
own past ailments eased. And
they never stopped coming
even as they also aged, slowly
hobbling across his bumpy yard.
When did grandma ever have
room on the side table for a
proud cake of her own?
Instead, she brought out
wares from other women
year after year, latticework
on top of cherry and peach
concoctions growing increasingly
wobbly as we all worried down
petering out hymns baked for
some savior we’d never met.
