It’s our anniversary. September first, we met in a garden
filled with flowers. She comes
every year, holding a bouquet of forget-me-nots, as if that will ever replace
her memory of me. She always seems
to blame me for the way the ceremony caused her life to change. Asking me to
ask God why He couldn’t wait one more day. The loneliness is unbearable she says,
the crying tiring, the questions always unanswered. The solid marble between us never quite stifles her sobs.
She cries and she accuses me of stealing her most precious possession, her rock,
her reason for breathing. She always addresses me as father, daddy, or dad.
Never realizing that the answers she seeks have already been given in the
silences between her mourning. This woman, this girl, who carries her grief
bottled up year after year, is my anticipation. For when I feel her warm fingers trace the curves of my
outer shell, and her soft lips kiss my marbled face, I feel worthy. We both know that we can’t keep meeting
like this, but for now we are each others’ surcease. I am the keeper of that
whom she loved most in world, and she is my only companion in this life that is
not a life at all. Today she seems that much closer to ending her journey’s to
my garden. So I listen to her cries, the melodies in her voice, absorbing them
with my entire being. I was born to hold that which has died, in order that the
living may call to them in peace. I memorize the light brush of her fingertips
against my outer shell, and immortalize the kiss that seals her pain, her love,
her hope, and her grief. I seal it inside of me and hope that the God she
serves delivers it for her.
It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far mo...
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