Trace William Cowen. - an excerpt.

May112009

an excerpt.

She was dressed as a fairy. Or a general princess or Cinderella, I could no longer tell the difference. She began to take dives into the grass and dirt, reveling in its organic filth like Christmas day wrapping paper. I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to understand. “Angie, get up now. Come on. Let’s go.” Angie killed the smile and smothered her giggles, standing to brush her knees free of dust and letting her head droop to the ground. In shame, I suppose; or at least – its interchangeable illusion. Jane the pianist grabbed Angie’s hand and led her to a quiet, eerily well-behaved group of children sitting in a loose circle and sipping from plastic neon cups. I remembered Angie as two years old, erratic, and the object of our collective sympathy. Her mother bled from the nostrils thanks to the abrasion of cheap cocaine, her father in and out of handcuffs for domestic abuse. They raised no children, instead treating Angie and her older brother as roommates. Pests. Angie frequently had the house to herself, often wandering down the street to nowhere in particular. In many ways, this church is her mother. This church is her father.

“Here, take this inside.” She handed me a warm, aluminum-foiled casserole. My mother was leaned over into the car, rearranging and stacking edible contributions to today’s festivities. A large glass bowl full of mashed potatoes. Chunky chocolate brownies sprinkled with powdered sugar. We were blindsided earlier in the week with a pulsating, berating series of phone calls and grocery store run-ins designed to guilt us into attending the church’s annual fall festival. A Halloween party, really; though no one openly admitted it. The soles of my shoes hadn’t touched this lawn, this parking lot – in at least seven years. We were all reluctant, we are all pouring with pride. But caved.

I took the steps to the front door, propped open with an overturned chair but not exactly inviting. I stopped in the middle of the aisle. Everything smelled the same. Aged wood and a carpet heavy with the weight of must, decades strong. Mr. Poland was staring at the stained glass painting in the center of the left side of the small, tight auditorium. I always felt like a match in a box of ashes here, waiting to be lit. Hoping for fire. He was running his fingers along the bright face of Jesus. Down his neck and to the center of his chest, at which point he stopped and turned around. His eyes were electric. I started walking before my feet strangled themselves into a full-blown jog. A subtle sprint. “How often do you talk to God?” Our eyes met completely. We carry the same weight. We are sharing the same fear. Ever lifting.

“I don’t know…” I watched as his knees leaned into slow, rhythmic steps. Like marching. “…I mean, I pray every night before I go to bed, but…” He would approach the altar, the podium; then slowly turn away before circling back. His hands were drawn like a magnet to the comfort of gripping its wooden sides, a beautiful home for him. “…It’s not really much of an exchange,” I continued. “It’s more of a – ”

“You see…” His hands were in his pockets now, stretching them as his hands bulged in and out of fists with each word. “That’s…that’s just it. People have these great, fantastic expectations. Blinded by hope. And they just fall asleep disappointed. Devastated. They’re crushed because the answer is…the answer is never immediate.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t pray.” I began walking further down the aisle again. An unintentional benediction of sorts. “What?” He was near the altar again, almost reaching. Almost touching. “I don’t pray anymore. I believe that we are all…or we should be…all in a constant, unbroken conversation with God. From birth ‘till death. Even if you don’t even realize it. Even if you don’t believe it.” We were standing in front of the empty choir. His hands out of his pockets now and flailing softly in the air. “Maybe every step we take is a response to a question. A question repeatedly posed. A letter in a word that…that eventually takes part in a sentence. Isn’t that great?”

“Yeah,” I said. He smiled, even laughing a bit before putting his hands back in his pockets and slumping his shoulders to fit a quiet but violent defeat. “I haven’t spoken with God in a very long time.” He walked back to Jesus, tracing his fingers along his nose and following the lines of his face back to his chest again. Then he simply stood in its glow. The sun, a clever trick.