Waiting for The Evening Bell at 4:53 PM

On my lunch break, I choose to sit at a white marbled
bench. It overlooks the sun-kissed saltwater canal
in Sandyport, that’s inhabited by overgrown red mangroves
and talking fish. They tell me to follow my dreams.  

Or abandon them. Depends on the mood they’re in
that day. And they become lonely when I don’t visit.
So, I try not to leave too soon after the evening bell.
I notice they get jealous when Isabella takes all my  

attention. Once the clock hand rotates from 4:59
to 5:00, she becomes the peak of my day. Serenading
me with a beautiful song that instruments and nightingales
come second to. She’s mesmerizing. Her melodic chimes 

remind me of Sunday morning service in that small
country town where my Grandparents lived. Me and my
cousins would pack tightly onto the dusty wooden floorboards
of their home every Saturday night, using washed out  

linen sheets and foam pads to satisfy our comfort.
Then headed to the Anglican Cathedral on Cedar hill
the following morning, in single-file, filling the entire fourth
pew on the left-hand side of the altar. The incense ignited  

my asthma attacks more than usual in the summer.
Nana tried her hardest to make me stay at home, but
ain’t nothing making me miss out on cherry-flavored 
Kool-Aid and apple pie after those long, boring services.  

I miss her so much. She died on my 17th birthday at 71.
Talk about ironic. Sometimes I wonder where she ended up.
I like to believe she’s up there with him. Makes me
think about going up there too. To see her again. 

If I can make it that is. After all, I haven’t talked to
God in a long while. Wonder if he’s doing okay...