she’s a religious girl, the kind that wears her hair in a bun, the kind in skirts and floral print and one of the first things she did upon getting to the shelter was to order herself a new shirt from sears with lace at the bodice and she felt so scandalous and free.
until the shirt arrived torn and she called herself a sinner for the guilt that undid her, for guilt had been beaten into her, in the name of Christ, and it would take years to undo
and we were there because she’d invited us, her goodbye party for she was moving into her own place away from shelter, from family, from abuse, and she’d spent all day cooking
and we sat there, the only guests invited to have come, and tried to make light but it was all across her face, the un-shed tears, the wondering why, the folded hands so worn from unheard prayers and i wanted to run outside and beg strangers to the feast and call those who had been invited and ask, how could you?
but instead i just told her how lovely her blueberry fritters and the bacon bread and the salad and begged the trinity to wrap her tight for there are some wounds you cannot touch, let alone heal
1. link up a post (old or new) that you feel is ‘broken’ or ‘imperfect’ or somehow redemptive
2. put the ‘imperfect prose’ button at the bottom of your post, so others can find their way back here (see button code in right-hand column of my blog)
3. read other’s prose, and encourage them!
*print of ‘trinity’ available here*