The Ontology of Three-Year-Olds in Mass

You ask me, “How was mass,”

and I don’t know what to say.

Are you asking about the homily,

whether the priest inspired, entertained?

Are you asking about the quality

of the presence of I AM?

How should I respond?

What could I ever say?

But I think that what you mean is something like

how did the kids behave?

I’m glad you’re home;

welcome back

to the day-to-day.

But still, you framed it up that way:

How was mass?

I don’t know whether to answer the question that you meant

Or the one you asked.

Shall I say that God is always God,

that mass is always good

(even if my countenance betrays my mood

which perhaps betrays a lack of faith

perhaps because the two year old

perhaps attempted to abscond

with, perhaps, the purse and hair

of the parishioner she could reach

with her toes—

can you imagine the indignity of someone else’s

toes

in your

hair

at mass—

that she—the two-year-old—forgot to put her panties on,

and I only noticed when she found a way

to hang

upside-down

from the pew, my face, the missal

by her toes—

yes, you’re counting right:

that’s three times I had to turn her over,

peel her from my face—

why, I wonder, did the Almighty see fit

to give toes to toddlers)?

These things have nothing

whatsoever

however

to do with the metaphysical question you just asked.

And so I stutter in the kitchen,

end up shooed away.

“She doesn’t understand these kinds of conversations,”

I hear him say apologetically,

and I’m grateful because here I am,

months later,

still wondering:

How was mass?

And thinking

(irrelevantly)

Thank God she’s three!