The others partake of the sacramental elements and I stay where I am, preferring my place at the periphery. Listening. Not seeing, not touching. But feeling, yes. I hear the young priest, the one with the rich lilting voice, approach my place. His hand rests lightly my head while my knees rest bent against the wood.
The Lord bless you and keep you, now and forever.
I consider the tender might carried in words that mean to call out blessing. My eyes burn at the words, at something I hear but cannot see.