Third Row Pew

Each Sunday morning mirrors the previous one with precision.
Her delicate frame sits not six inches to my direct left:
ritual enduring week after week in the third row pew.
Her fingers grips the hymnal like a fragile newborn-
Glazed brown eyes scan the chords of clustered notes.
She meditates upon them, inhales the smoky air:
and vehemently nods in approval as she applauds each one.
In secret, I wait for her week after week in that third row pew.
She walks in the heavy French doors like a lost passenger:
drab clothing contrasting the spring morning creeping in behind her.
I welcome her routine wave as I return her ambiguous smile.
For two years we have undergone this nonverbal exchange,
yet her lips never move except for an occasional pensive whisper.
The heat of the stained glass shines through and catches our hair;
the third row pew cradles our backs as we bask in the colored sunlight.
Never does she sing to the hymnals, just a slight sway back and forth.
This Sunday morning a young man walks past our third row pew;
He moves his hands in delicate patterns and she nods and does the same.
They converse through swift hand gestures: speech void of audible sound.
The tattered blue hymnal presses against the soft ridges of her hand.
The rumbling of the organ begins; she exhales as she tries to envision:
imagine what such a majestic instrument must sound like to the ear.
I close my eyes alongside her, swallowing each resonating note.
The church bells toll, but all that is heard is the distinct sound of empathy.
Holy words fill our lungs and thoughts, as we delight in the third row pew.