Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Wednesday, March 19, 2008. Three alarm fire in your bed. Three stations rushed to the bedside table, waking you up with a knocked over glass, spreading in the sheets. Another pillow is ruined. This is your morning wake-up call.

The two play in the closet, the kitchen, the yard. They step out onto the bridge with sticks in hand, waving them at their captors. Soon they turn to guns with handles. They spot animals in the trees and bandits down below. One hangs just a little more convincingly over the side while the other rests his head. Dressed in Sunday best a day early. Shoes polished and hair combed into place. Lick of fingertips to smooth out parts. What is in that wooden box? Why are we driving up to the church? You wish now that you'd picked a more subdued color for the car, even if it doesn't match the leather interior. They nudge your purse for crayolas, swinging legs on pews. Isn't every service kind of like a funeral? Discussion of death and resurrection... something about Heaven. The path that leads to Heaven is trying to match your children's footsteps in the mud as you walk along behind them. The straight and narrow is paved with backyard picnics and chalk paintings scribbled out on sidewalk. The way to righteousness is explaining that the sun doesn't mix with the clouds to ruin the day; They are just trying to make a rainbow. Soon they will be carving their names into the wood and the names of girls down the street. The bikes will be left in other yards and the cloud cover won't bother them anymore. Wake up.

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