chapel song

By Eliza Rudalevige

A small farewell from one of your literary editors.

My father and I, we sing loudly in church;

it's one of the few things we still have in common.

And even then, it’s a rare occurrence

when we both sit in the pews of

my lazy, lovely, disjointed youth

and harmonize, literally.

He always sight-reads the bass line.

I would say he gets it about two-thirds right,

on a lucky day. On these unlucky days,

it’s the good part of church:

the faith laden in the music,

the bottom-worn bench beneath us,

my father fumbling through the

gentle tangle of notes.

Illustration by Samia Menon