Pear

"Here Sister, this is the prettiest one of all today!" She gently bit into the fruit, slowly sweetened by the sun's late summer rays.

A slight breeze broke through the twilight hours.
The pear tree stood majestic, despite half its body has been ripped by a lightning storm.

"Lord, hear our pear."
As Sr. Jacinta Ngân munched away and the sisters trailed behind me on our walk, I could hear the murmur of my dad's voice.

Every evening, summers ago, mom and dad packed all seven of us into a station wagon and we went to daily Mass. The Vietnamese church was too far away and so we attended St. Paul's Catholic Church, an eight-minute drive. We watched in silence as this was our first time attending a Mass in English.

"Lord, hear our pear."
Until the general intercessions.
My dad's voice reverberated deeply, its warm resonance lingering in the air.

Lord, hear our pear?
It didn't sound right but one does not question a Vietnamese patriarch.

It was many years later when missals became more plentiful that I figured it out.
Lord, hear our prayer.
Lord, hear the whispers of our dreams.

The sisters laugh at my reminiscences.
I join in.
My gaze continued to linger upon the tree's enduring will to live.

ps. Photo is of Angelo, my nephew, at Lowes as the "carpenter." Kinda like my dad, a jack-of-all-trades.