Evening Prayer

By Peter Bowden



In the evening, just after the sun folded itself into the trees, the family gathered in the front room. The house was small—clapboard walls washed in soft grays, the floor scuffed pine, the ceiling bead board, white and plain. The smell of supper still lingered faintly—beans, cornbread, something boiled. Outside, the cicadas had started their hum.

The father came in from work with the quiet weight of routine. He placed his cap on the small hook by the door and washed his hands in the kitchen sink. The children, already barefoot and in clean clothes, moved into place without a word. The mother lit a single candle on the low table, then knelt beside the others. They all crossed themselves together.

The rosary began slow, a litany of sound rising and falling like breath. “Hail Mary, full of grace…”—the repetition worn into their bones like the pattern of rain on the roof. The children stumbled now and then, the smallest one mouthing the words more than speaking them, eyes darting toward the flickering candle. The father’s voice stayed low and steady, the mother’s gentle, guiding.

It was Lent, and this was their offering: time, focus, stillness. A giving up of something else—television, play, fatigue—in exchange for this circle of prayer. When it ended, the candle was snuffed with a whisper. The children rose slowly, legs stiff, quiet and solemn as they padded off to bed. The house settled back into silence. The wood creaked in the coolness. The crucifix on the wall caught the last light of the day.


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