On the way to church this morning, I told my mother for the first time I don't believe in God anymore. Which is to say there are ways to invoke the spirit without demanding something holy precede it.
We arrive and I sit up straight. Witness warning signs and yelling matches and I know this pew remembers each sermon by name even if I don't.
Voices oscillate across my cranium and in unison hands raise up as I drown everything in sight out imagining driftwood and arms spread wide as communion floating across disparate waters. Maybe gods wonder about evidence too.
Mom can't unwrite the doubt across my mind as the preacher speaks, but she can see my mouth move, so I sing. Mumble phrases and let them carry a burden I'm unwilling to own to a heaven I don't deserve.
Funny how in an instant sin and son mimic one another off the tongue.
She asks for peace. Names today a new journey.
I ask for a sign.
Wait for the flood.