With an overhanging tree that never had any leaves in my recollections.
Clouds overcast, windows projecting vacancy
By the stained glass fogginess.
I don't remember the evening they did an exorcism,
But I see myself in my dress and frilly white socks, coloring on the floor,
Sheltered between two pews.
"Mommy, why does Delores want to kill everybody?" I asked her.
I can see the spine shivers she gets when I ask her about that story,
The otherworldly voice
And the six men it took to hold her down.
My name in green marker,
The outside edges bleeding slightly,
Like the soft, fuzzing memories of childhood
My stretched hide tambourine clutched by tiny hands.
Tiny eyes looking up at the dim ceiling of the Sunday school room.
"The cabinets are so high."
I thought as he asked me to do something my tiny understanding could not comprehend.
This is wrong.
I have to get away.
"Where is mommy?"
Some memories are not that fuzzy
And the bathroom door hung open,
Pale window beckoning.
But it was so dark...
"You keep saying that so I want you to write down what crazy means to you."
Her leg causually crossed under a tie dye skirt.
Mine hanging over the couch side.
Her office was softly lit, inviting
With stones you find at hippie stores
And lots of plants.
I felt like I was wasting her time.
"You haven't changed. It's been two years and you're not any more confident than you were when I met you."
"Yes I am! You just can't see it because my thinking is different! I don't worry about things as much as I used to."
"Are you still jealous?"
"Everyone gets jealous about things."
"You're deflecting. And you haven't changed."
"Good morning! How are you three today?"
Looking up between them to see quickly pasted smiles on rigid frames.
"Fine! How are you?"
Handshakes and hugs.
"Mom and dad fought the whole way here."
Looking away from laser glares.
Amused laughter following us as we walked back to the children's Sunday school room
The jello was a beautiful turquoise with gummy fish suspended in a Noah reenactment.
Mom bent over each of us to add the whip cream.
Mostly I think she knew what we liked.
"Do you have to be perfect for God to love you?" she questioned our little class.
"No!" we all shouted in unison, giggling and diving into the tumultuous sea.
I think I turned to see her eyes brimming with tears,
But memories are fuzzy.