The Back Pew

He drags his feet in the gravel parking lot. Almost afraid to enter the Chapel doors where Momma had him baptized, for the first time. Eyes set on his boots, rocks tumbling down the embankment as if to seek refuge from the Hellfire in his shadow. Faith. It's been a receipt in his wallet. A bargaining chip with his fears, self-doubt. A fading pang inside the carapace of a lost man who has seen so much suffering. That the thought of a God created it. Allowing it. It just pissed him off. Pushed him further away. "It's been over a decade." He tells his friend. The assuring palm on his shoulder is steady and well meant. But, he feels nothing. No matter how badly he wants to be "lifted up". "To see the light". To feel, anything, really. One step at a time. He gets closer to the doors. "What am I supposed to do in here?" He says. His friend is silent. Waiting. Not wanting to push. The door opens slowly. The people are unfamiliar to him. But, he vaguely remembers the hymns. He sits at the back. As far away from the Preacher man as he can. He doesn't want to be called upon. Doesn't want to Testify, or even ask for forgiveness. Not here. His eyes return to his boots. Letting the songs fill up his mind. Trying desperately to let something in. He starts to lift his hand. Almost out of some sort of muscle reflex, from so long ago. Instead, he intertwines his fingers and places them in his lap. Leans forward. As if to speak quietly to a friend, that he's not sure is there. -James Kelley 2019