Had you always been so religious? I missed that bit somehow. One of our mutual friends told me you were reading the Bible now. Even carrying it with you. I took her word for it. Reminds me of the stories I heard growing up. The ones about my mom. She used to keep one in her purse. My dad didn’t care so much. It served a purpose for her back then. He was more concerned with all of the cigarettes. Insisted she quit if they were going to keep it up. I went into their room the other night. They had fallen asleep to the flashing lights and seemingly endless shouts radiating from the television. I kissed my mother’s forehead and turned down the lamp. Something by Thoreau dog-eared facedown on the nightstand. She was reading less about Jesus these days. They told me she was nine months pregnant when she converted. Naked in a tub of water. Reminiscent of a baptism it sounds. I was there too I suppose. Submerged in the tub with her. She showed me a photo. So proud in her white dress with her hand resting on her belly. “That’s you in there you know.” My father’s parents had welcomed her. Not a trace of hesitation. We didn’t grow up learning about sins. Not the way you did. I wonder if you’ll stay put like you swore. Never drifting too far from that familiar body of water. Do you think I’m going to write another song about you? I can’t help it if they pour out of me. Heavy and grey like the clouds we cut through flying home. I heard it hasn’t quit since I left Thursday morning. It’s raining here too you know.
