It is the oil.
It is the oil that gleams above
Peeling paint on withered doorframes,
Whispering,
“God bless this home with strength and love”
It is the oil.
It is the oil that graced my skin,
The morning I was baptized,
Proclaiming,
“This child of God is born again”
It is the oil.
It is the oil that shines on the
Pads of my father’s lifted hands,
Testifying,
“I am but a servant of God”
It is the oil,
The pine scented, glass bottle of oil
That when I get to the age where
Nothing is left
When life is monotonous,
And I’m waiting for death,
The oil will remind me
Of these memories I cherish,
Until the day when I eventually perish
Because it is the oil,
It is the oil that in the end,
Will once again grace my pale skin,
Declaring,
“Glory to God in the highest, Amen”