the graves’ church, harlan, ky. may 14th, 6:59 pm.
𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒. in motels, in unlit alleys — in graveyards where passing is a word of multiple meanings, and when the days pass they never quite resurrect, but chase each other along endlessly grey lines. such is her life in this passage: a grey line of steps chasing each other, every morning, dragging her through an underwhelming existence and always, unfailingly, ending here. it is the sunset that alerts her of the passing of time — just those twelve minutes of burning red igniting the church windows, a cathedral in flames, a temple to arson. then the night settles, but it is just the same as daylight. it is dark, it is empty, and no clutching of her silver cross would bring back the feeling of a benevolent god. so each night her feet will eventually drag her back to the motel at the end of the road —— that is not to be called home, nor shelter really, for it is just a stop along the way. she thinks of jesus and the twelve steps towards his crucifixion, and thinks to herself, when then ? when do i get to climb to my golgotha ? yet tonight she does not wander. an odd sense of old testament rage grips her instead: she makes the slow climb up to the door of the church and finds the reflections of a raging sunset setting fire to the pews, a preacher standing in the light, a stain of black against the light. perhaps it is the darkness that soothes her rage, a little: it is so much easier to feel close to those who, like her, seem to chase the light away. “ father ? ” her voice, barely a whisper, sounds like profanity in these halls: but she is grateful for the wood along the walls, she is spared the exposure of a reverb. fred, or whatever is left of her, takes one more step inside. “ can i —— ” a penitent gaze is lowered, words die on her lips: then, looking up once more, her voice is quieter. “ do you have a minute ? ” —— @deputystakes.
