Evidence of Things Unseen
By John Nichols
Grandma was a hill woman
hard of eye and belief.
She wore simple gingham dresses
hair tightly braided,
no jewelry or makeup.
Only God was necessary to her,
her faith was as deep
as West Virginia coal.
The Bible was the final word,
no rod sparing here,
bed by seven to keep
me in line, to save my soul.
But at thirteen I was
a reader, baptized
in Verne, Wells,
and Heinlein, believing
their prophecy-
men in the moon.
On that July night
I huddled under my
blanket secretly listening
to the tiny voice
of the earplug oracle
whisper, "The Eagle has landed."
My faith rewarded
I burst into
the living room
to tell Grandma
who sternly watched
the T.V and called
it a lie.
"Satan is the great
deceiver, appearing
as an angel, we cannot
believe our eyes."
She went to her grave
calling it a lie.
It's been two decades
since that night,
I never rode in the mooncar,
gazed upon their footprints,
or touched the moonrocks,
our rockets fly only
around the Earth,
yet I believe Armstrong,
just as Grandma
believed Paul.
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