I May Walk Slowly

Are you there God? It’s me, Erin. I take an eraser to the name Margaret on the Judy Blume book and etch my own; right above the girl who stares at the clouds, as if to establish my own permanence. As if adding myself to the question will give me an answer as to why, why, why my 3rd grade self must listen to the slamming of doors; car doors, garage doors, bedroom doors, a barrier to spitting, angry words. New vocabulary swirls in the air (wouldn’t teacher be so proud?) from mom to dad off slammed doors and back again, but maybe I shouldn’t write this four letter word in the journals. We go to church, Sunday mornings, Saturday nights, Sunday mornings, Saturday nights, whispers of reconciliation (oh look, a new word) and peaces be with you that seem forced and faltered even to young eyes. I write a paper, Acts 2:42 “devote yourselves to the apostle’s teaching and to the breaking of bread and prayer” and my mind drifts to breads and pastas and families that sit around tables because the thought of translating a bible for a 10 year old has yet to cross an adult’s mind. Are you there God? It’s me, Erin. I really am starting to wonder I whisper sorrys to clenched hands As another boy who is far from you whispers sweet nothings in my ears Everything I want to hear, I need to hear, I want to hear, I don’t know but I cannot distinguish the two John 9:31 “we know that God does not listen to sinners” but am I a sinner myself for skipping class? I tell myself no. Am I a sinner for skipping mass? I tell myself no, Am I a sinner for letting this boy, whose name my mother refuses to let roll off her tongue, kiss my hair one moment and the next make me feel like dirt. Are you there God? It’s me, Erin. I heard once that it’s better to feel pain better pain than nothing, but I would give my breath to feel anything, anything but the hollowness that seeps through my bones and consumes my every thought and crevice. The same hollowness that has followed me through school walls, church walls, church pews, that echoes through praises of Hallelujah that seem to mock me. Sunday mornings, Sunday mornings, You said that you are the way, the truth, and the light; but where is the light in this darkness I’ve buried myself in? Are you there God? It’s me, Erin. Go ahead and leave that unanswered, really I don’t mind. I decided to stop asking, stop looking. I feel better now I’m older now I’m better now I’m happy now. I have sparkling eyes set on a box of rain, up north, and I feel the urge to run and leap and sing and cry with happiness. I see what you have set before me, now. I see you in clouds in the light that crawls through branches on lazy afternoons in the gossamer frost that crowns flowers before the day breaks in sunsets that stretch their painted fingers across sky and mountain and water in the hands of a friend who forgave and picked me up. I may walk slowly, but I don’t walk back.