"Pews"

"Come, come quickly," I follow your deep, rumbling voice around the side of the building. My light laughs seem so quiet in the wide expanse around us. It is morning, so only waning bits of light seep through the old cracks in the wood as you search. I look around in case someone will make fun of you, but our only company is miles of waving grass. "Look here, Angie." you call. Someone dug a small hole into the building's side. Above it, they layered boards on top of each other for support. A gentle hand reaches out and cups the back of my head, guiding me under.

"Watch your head, it's narrow here." In the tunnel, southern grasses grow thick. You told me to sing songs during the whole hour trip over here. You told me, so the grass would sing back. I can hear the grass now whistle in my ear as the building inhales, welcoming us in. Tunneling down deeper into the fantasy, we stop abruptly, and my head hits your palm. You apologize. I forgive you.

I can stand up straight now. The tunnel opens up into a cavernous room. You tell me this is a chapel, a place of worship. Wind pushes through again, and the church roars. I think it is a monster, as I grip the ends of your shirt. You lead us forward. We've come this far, and for what? I wonder, staring at the faded room. The air feels different and stuffy. My mouth is full of dust drifting down from the ceiling. I am young on the outside, but I gripe as inside, I shrivel up. Before my bones age to dust, you pull me to the side.

"Do you know about Churches, Angie?"

"No," I reply. "Ma never takes me to them. She says we have better things to do."

You laugh and sit down, legs stretching out like a spider. I always wanted to be as tall as you. Then, I could tower over Chris and Lonnie, just like you. I move to sit on your knee, my short legs exhausted from walking. "How strange is that."

"Well, Your ma and I, when we were kids, attended service every Sunday. I never missed a day. We went along with your aunts and uncles, too, or my mom would throw a fit. But I liked it so much because I got to hear incredible stories," There is joy hidden behind your jaded gaze. When you blink, I see it disappear. You gaze around me and point to a leather book, nestled under a cushion.

"Grab that book there, I'll show you."

"But it's dusty!" I whine.

You smile, and it's a crescent moon of white against dark skin. "I'll brush it all off. Just hand it over, Angie"

"You're terrible, Dad"

Yet I extract the book from its dusty tomb, holding the cushion up with incredible tenderness. You laugh in the back, and I want to throw the cushion at you. Instead, I pull the book free and trot back with the prize in hand. True to your promise, you wipe down the whole thing. The gray spot on your shirt grows and grows until I tell you to stop⁠—it's clean⁠—and you do. I can't help but wonder, had I failed to say anything, would you have stopped?

You open the pages, and they flutter to life. Thunder rumbles outside, but we sit in peace as you recite the stories I've never heard. I like to imagine the sweet water running through barren deserts, a beautiful garden of Eden, and the millions of bugs descending from the sky. You tell me that happens here to, but I can't believe it. You tell me that there is a meanness in everyone, like the devil, the maker to our madness. I look into your wide wonderful eyes instead. You must not have the devil inside, then.

We sit, immersed in stories for what feels like hours. The sun is disappearing below the horizon, and Ma must be wondering where we are. You realize this and shut the book too soon. I think our escapade is over, yet you reveal one last surprise to me. You crouch by a pew stripped naked of cushions.

"You know your toys in the garage? As long as they sit in the dust, you'll have them around when your older," You say with a grin. I can't see your point. Dust is smelly, and it makes breathing difficult.

"You see, Angie, anything in dust lasts forever. So I'll show you my trick, so I'll always be close to you." Your long, spindly hand hovers over the dust. Then, I watch you write. I don't know many words, but I recognize this one. Your looping letters soon stick together to make you name.

"As long as this remains here, you can't forget me, kid. You promise?" You lift your pinky up towards me, and I see your crescent smile again. I want to laugh a little, so I do. Ma likes to say you're a child stuck in an adult. Now, I can see how she would think that. But I am a child, too. So I link my pinkie, incredibly light against your skin, with yours.

"Promise."

On my way to the clinic, I pass through the field in my car. The grass here has aged, now brittle with the approaching winter. First, it's a leisurely scene, and I roll down the car window, and then it's the Church. The wood is as black as coffee and the stone edges have grown steep. Shrubs with heads as straight as arrows sprout from the ground, preening in the sun. The church has grown up, like me.

I am moving before I know it. My car sits idling on the road, and I am running through the grass. They sing a different song now, with new melodies and dynamics.

I pass a dead rabbit in the grass, but I move too quickly to mourn or forgive him. The door is all dressed up for this occasion in vines and thorns, yet they fall off as soon as I push past. Unlike outside, the Chapel remains timeless. I can't undress the pressure in my chest as I walk down the familiar aisle. In the second pew from the stage, he is waiting for me. My god, I think, I've forgotten you.

The bench begins trembling underneath my hands. I stare and shake, unsettling years of dust banked on the edges. It starts to yield, then it breaks.

A beast aflare, I tear at the pew. I dig my nails in to find the songs you sang along to. I tear open wood to find the man you had become. I shake off every last piece of dust so you do not linger. I know the name in dust was not the name nor the dad it used to be. Snapping, shattering, and silent cries become a hymn that only an empty chapel can hear. I destroy the pew until his name is gone, then lay in its remnants. I could breathe again.

The chapel grows quiet as the Devil in its walls settles down. She rolls over what broke her and breathes in the dust. It fills her mouth just as easily as air. She does not know where else she belongs. Yet she must leave, as the living do, to return to their homes. On the steps, she looks out over the miles of shimmering grass. Here, the woman notices a songbird. She notices how downy it's feather are. Her dad wanted to keep a songbird in the house, to hear it's singing all day long.

She untangles his foot from the tree. Bit by bit, he flaps harder. Together, they've reached freedom.