The 38th of March

I wrote the following last year on my 38th birthday. I’ve not had a place or time to release it. I wasn’t sure it made as much sense to the reader as it did to me. I’m going to pick up the thread of it later today, but thought I might let it hang in the air today to allow time for comment. Tell me what you think is happening and I’ll see what I can do to get it back on the course I’d meant it to be on.

Before you read on be warned that what follows amounts to a vulgar and irreverent ‘conversation’ with God.

“Fah! At least those atheists bother to decide.”

That from the plastic Jesus swinging on the rosary–glow-in-the-dark–hanging from the rear-view mirror of my grandmother’s car. A 1976 Chevy Nova that smelled equally of peppermints and cigarette smoke.

“Impressive. You don’t take your own name in vain?” I never know why I goad Him here, but it feels good.

Outside the Nova objects and things are awash in sunlight. Their overexposed details and faded colors as imprecise as you’d expect from ‘objects and things’. Contrastingly, inside the car features are distinct. The tan-to-match dashboard is dusted with a combination of road grit and the eroding flecks of sunburned plastic. The brown and gold houndstooth fabric of the bench seat captures my attention each time I look-so I don’t anymore. In fact, the cab is dark enough that you can tell Jesus is angry since He’s glowing. The dream always starts earlier, but my memory of it doesn’t kick in till His atheist line so I never know exactly why He’s vexed with me.

“Cursing with your own name sounds dumb. Try it.”

“Abigail H. Johnson it’s hot in here!”

“Nice with the ‘H’. I guess you’re uncomfortable saying ‘fucking’ in front of your Lord, Jesus Christ?”

“Well…”

“You know, I am everywhere, right?”

I think, how is that different than taking your own name in vain? You weren’t everywhere two years ago.

The dream ends and I wake up next to my husband.

“Happy Birthday,” he says.

Of course he’s not dead…then his unrequited kiss fades into a buzzing.

I wake up alone. I wake up alone groping for the snooze bar.

“Fucking Christ.”

Word count: 380
Day 188