Sitting on a church pew, harsh against my bony ass, was hardly ever my cup of tea, and now that the pastor is telling tales of heaven and how it will positively have a place for my mama, the distaste is growing. I'm not quite listening to his sermons, even though I should probably be the one who's listening most. She was my mama, after all, not Ned the grocer's, or Mr. Stephens', the eldery man from across the street. It's just that, everyone is so keen on honoring and celebrating her life, but she's not alive, she's dead. Why are we all holding on to something we will never get back? I loved her, I tell you, and she loved me right back, but I am all cried out and I can't handle hearing about how happy she made us all, because she can't anymore. If I keep clinging onto her memory, how will I ever be able to recover from her death? Instead of preaching about her life here, the pastor should be preaching about how she's doing in heaven; about how she is partying it up with her deceased ancestors and is already setting up a room for me, because she can't wait for me to be with her again. Maybe if he preached about how she's with our old dog, Hudson, and can finally play piano and sew and dance again without worrying about her swelling joints and fatigued muscles, I'd consider being a bit more attentive. That's just not how our church works though, I guess.
YOU ARE READING
The Word of Luke
Teen Fiction"And as I lay there in my room, crickets chirping and the moon glowing, I began to think that maybe he was one of those beautiful things my mama told me about. Those beautiful things that we often forget exist but need to appreciate more." (unedited...
