Feast of the Guardian Angels

as a child i remember saying one prayer every night, reciting it in the sing-song cadences of something learned by rote; a phonetic echo, lacking the clear, overpowering layers of a self-consciousness with meaning that grows rather than eases with maturity.

i miss that old sincerity; as hungry as i was to learn the 'real' socially-derived definitions of words, they were then still only as powerful as i was willing to let them be. the dictionary was a curiosity, not an authority; the cool, laid-back uncle rather than the terrifyingly stone-faced aunt.

words were personal. the words i used were mine, they served my needs and not anyone else's.

the romantic in me can't help but look back and be filled with the sense of it all having been a much simpler time. which, in some ways, is completely true. and yet, having been there, i know better than to let myself believe just that.

when the cynic in me looks back and hears me utter those words each night, kneeling in the dark before the Sto Nino with its soft, unreadable smile, the cold porcelain face lit from below with a flickering pair of red electric bulbs that pretended to be candle flames...

now when i look back and hear myself utter those words i can't help but feel a brief shiver run down my spine:

Angel of God, my guardian dear,
to whom God's love entrusts me here,
ever this day
be at my side
to light and guard,
to rule and guide.