Originally Posted on The Yale Herald - Medium via UWIRE

Sunday, Jun. 2 Cinnamon rolls, that’s what I

don’t smell. Everyone sleeps. This room

isn’t mine, doesn’t feel like rest.

Pillow doesn’t remember

my shoulder.

Sunday, Jun. 9 Too quiet since Dad moved

into his office. Little brother tunes out and hides

headphones in every room, Mom hides

wine in the bathroom cabinet.

Sunday, Jun. 16 Father’s Day. Brother and I

make muffins: “close enough.” Dad is

laughing in the pew with his arm around

my fourth-grade counselor, who

sings every Sunday.

Sunday, Jun. 23 I need to notice everything.

Therapist will ask. In the margins of the bulletin

my capital letters look like his; my cursive

all her. Soon we’ll replay yesterday’s game

and forget.

Sunday, Jun. 30 There is no stained glass.

Gray carpet and a scarlet banner, with two

white satin doves high-fiving.

I always overdress and sit

too close to the front.

Sunday, Jul. 7 “Who do you belong to?”

I’m supposed to smile, say

my family name.

I’m getting braver,


Sunday, Jul. 14 Some woman’s hand

on my head. I tell her, The Holy Ghost

might not remember me. My eyes don’t

know how to stay shut anymore

when God speaks.

Illustration by Paige Davis

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