Photo by Allwyn Bhawle on Unsplash
by Jen Wrightsmith
Jesus Christ stares down at me from his spot below the stained ceiling tiles of the basement Sunday School room, where he’s forever nailed to his cross. His forever hand forever threatens to drip his almightyblood on me where I sit in my polished patent leathers, ankles crossed under my assigned wooden seat, forever gluing cotton balls onto pre-cut copy paper sheep I’ve first glued onto my own choice of construction paper, as long as it’s blue or pink.
The Sunday School teacher, who is someone’s grandma (not mine), whose lipsticked in pasty coral, whose voice cuts paperclip clean, leans her yesterday party balloon breasts against my back so my left pigtail catches in her silver brooch and my body clamps between her and the table.
Careful now.
Lest I spread too much glue, lest I take up too much space, lest I am too much for this holy basement that wants to stain me forever, but only if I’m a good little lamb, only if I’m his little lamb, he’ll forever-my-soul to take, but only if.
Not too much now, careful now, and forever now forever Amen.
Jen Wrightsmith is a writer and teacher. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in places such as Smokelong Quarterly, Bending Genres, Tiny Molecules, and other fine publications. It often explores body trauma, memory, and nature’s role in healing.
