Sanctuary

I didn’t have a say in it,

when my dad went into the ministry.

It’s 1979 when I am swept along

       with boxes

         and shoes

           and books

to Junction City, Kentucky,

     from Mississippi’s Pine Belt.

Still south to you

     up north to me.

People talk faster

     using different words,

       noticing my words are slow

         and quaint.

Perpetually unlocked, the sanctuary

     becomes mine during the week.

 Quiet towers over my short stature,

     as I pass the long pews,

       their wood dark and unpadded as they

         sit in rows like soldiers protecting.

     A bracing moment to break

       into the silence of the room,

         my first few notes on the piano

           pierce through, like cracking an egg.

     Then music flows,

       easy in one moment,

         dissonate in the next

           fingers trip and notes split.

Stained sunlight spills

     into the elongated room

       like a colored waterfall, witnessing my fingers move,

         keeping me company.

I didn’t have a say in it.

In 2016, when my body betrays me.

I lurch into a sanctuary in Ohio.

Quiet towers over me

     as I pass the long pews,

       wood dark and unpadded,

         sitting in rows like soldiers protecting.

Stained sunlight spills

     into the elongated room

       like a colored waterfall, witnessing

         tears and fears and so much snot

           spilling out of me,

             spilling onto the prayer bench

               under the cross.