The Stuff That Lingers
My childhood memories seep into my senses
The smell of dust and wood and age
Harsh pews and dangling feet and digging
Through my grandmother’s purse for mints
Actually for anything that could serve as playful distraction
From the assurance that I am surely doomed to Hell
Paper clips, tissues, empty gum wrappers
We fashion into medieval goblets
Giggling, once too often, and I am outside picking my own switch
I search for a savior through the hazy wavy window pane
Only a mass of distorted shapes like spirits, oblivious and singing
The preacher was right
At once after my stinging selection
I recall a dream and I am back inside
Sitting in the back of that same sacred space
Dangling my feet and watching them sway
I look up and he is sitting in the front pew
Purple paisley bandana across his sweaty forehead
Afro far from sculpted, well-worn vest and yellowed billowed shirt
I see his profile, I know him
I have heard his electrifying anthem
I liked it
THEY did not
He turns his body toward me, cranes his neck
Lifts his long arm and rests that hand on the pew
We see each other
Expression soft, a smile for comfort
He winks
And we know there is no Hell
He returns his gaze forward and we listen contented
Enjoying the choir’s jubilant hymn
To this day, I do not recall my punishment
sometimesihatemycat 