Christmas Ash

The alms man made his peace with God on a beg-bench in the church across the street from the aqueduct. He pressed the flip of his knees against the beg-wood and made his atonement. The rector’s assistants stood quietly in the shadow of the cross, figuring out ways to steal coppers from the alms-bowl. ‘Alms for the poor’ shouted the beggar-woman, her hair crowed on the top of her head. She made a camp out of Salvation Army blankets and clothes-pins on the steps of the church, placing her beg-bowl on the step closest to the doors. ‘I am a person too’, she hollered, her beg-bowl tippling on the step in front of her. The rector’s assistant folded the priest’s surplice and placed it gingerly on the altar-board. He stole his fingers through the pockets feeling for wafers and loose change, his eyes trained on the crucifix above his head. ‘My feet are numb’ bawled the beggar-woman, her face red as Christmas ash. ‘Will someone, for the love of God, drop a copper in my bowl?’ The alms man, hearing the beggar-woman’s plea, unbowed his knees and trundled out of the church, his alms cap held out in front of him like a ciborium. The rector’s assistant, having found a bit of wafer, bellied his way out the backdoor of the sanctuary, his feet scampering like a church mouse's.