I’m sitting in the church
that I grew up attending. The
wood pews, the candlelight, the
arched roof and walls
perfectly designed
sculpted to loft voices to the heavens
and cast God right back down to
mortals’ ears.
(I used to think sunlight
splitting storm clouds
was God breaking through.
The Resurrection, modernized.)
The stained-glass Mother and Child
stretches up over me. Reds and blues
and motherhood. Baby Jesus knows
something I don’t.
His mother knows more.
Soft clack of footsteps. My next-door
neighbor returns to her pew, bouncing
an irritated toddler on her hip. He sniffles,
curls askew, and she brushes his nose
with a careful finger.
Awash in holy red, sacred blue, divine sunlight.
Mother and child, modernized.
(I used to believe in God
with all the faith of lambs.
Sometimes I still do.)
Abigail lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with her family. She is a recent high school graduate submitting this piece for a grade in her Creative Writing class. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, but she’d sure like to find out.