An inveterate collector, I began early with a small book of blank pages bound in padded blue leatherette where I pasted holy relics of saints/illustrations of angels with glittered wings/sacred heart picture cards/virgin Mary keepsakes/Easter Sunday blessings/a photo of the pope/a 2nd grade scholastic award from Sister Ann/an illustrated first-communion prayer/and more. My album was nearly filled that ninth summer: heat waves and children idled on the porches of my Phoenix neighborhood. I overheard my parents talking about a family who lived two houses away—we did not know them well, and their children, Hattie, 6, and Henry, 4, were not my playmates. Occasionally Hattie and I passed each other roller skating up and down the sidewalk. My parents said Hattie lost her younger brother when the gun he had been playing with misfired, and though details were sketchy my shock and sorrow were sudden and strong and without thinking I offered my collection of religious mementos to her as though a book of sacred words and pictures could comfort her the way it did me as though in presenting my collection Hattie would know what I meant to say but did not have words for then. Neither did she. It was my mother who had plenty of words when she demanded I take it back. But I never did.
The Gift
Celeste Pfister
Celeste Pfister
Celeste Pfister has long been writing in the shadows of her roles including mother, physician, teacher, mentor, writer, artist, musician. She has taught literary courses and had essays published in Reunion (Shodair Children's Hospital). She publishes a bi-weekly blog, "Creative Inspiration," on topics of art and poetry. She lives in Venice, Florida where she paints and works on her first poetry collection and a memoir.