June 8:
Watching Megan’s sister
study at her desk each night, she learns to focus on the sliding doors in the
church parlor where Mrs. Freeman claims the overflow congregated hiding a stop
on the underground railroad.
June 9:
Confirmed alone without
training, she took the Bible her father gave her, watching white spittle slide
down his chalky chin.
June 10:
Rome falls in the book of
Revelation, horsemen of the apocalypse like that spring in Bradford Woods when
a Sunday school teacher thought teens needed to learn about hell instead of Clint
Eastwood painting a town red.
June 11:
She slapped at bee stings
while she mowed, a brother on the church roof hoisting a pellet gun to a
shoulder, aiming down across a parking lot toward the lawn.
June 12:
Determined, industrious,
a pioneer breaking turf in a back garden near the Avon proving the value of
American hard work and focus, these were the claims she heard that summer that
made it so hard to stay.
June 13:
Presbyterian and Britney
Spears, anagrams with double meanings like “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry
God” turning the other cheek that Florida summer when my brother and I played
duck, duck, goose on the church lawn.
June 14:
Connecting horror with
the fairy tale opens a space for interdependence and what del Toro calls
“beauty and love,” a “Once upon a time” opening and “They lived
happily ever after” ending of most fairy tales meeting the monster.
June 15: running out of
childhood churches
Failing as director of a church
latchkey day care, she set two alarms and a wake-up call to pick up milk so
early her parents threw her into the basement, dark, damp, and cool.
*Uncle Boonmee: Who Can
Recall His Past Lives*
June 16:
Bob Wassinger hated her
church, its comfortable pews, lack of kneeling, and short services. A priest
explained his focus on atmosphere, losing oneself in the ritual, while she thought
faith, hope, and the greatest of all meant more.
June 17:
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