Fluff up the satin and flatten the hem as you hear the water splashes of brother and sister who are right behind.
The sun rays sparkle the scene of the morning ritual of Sundays that demands the mandatory rise sometime after sunrise.
The service of choice always depends on when bodies and soul promise to converge and since the choices all lead to the same road, pressure is minimal.
For some, it’s best to stroll in for the 11 am because crushes usually prefer that crowd for obvious reasons. The communion parade is so much more than the reverence of the blood and body of Christ. It’s surveying of well-dressed worshippers and whether or not he’s going to have his curiosity triple when he checks out the fluffed frock from Londontown.
Sitting in the sedately arranged pews is the meditative treatment you never take for granted.
The organ soars with rendering of hits from dead saints and the varying gems from British colonial handbooks as the leathery scribes contain the dusty imprint of White males who dictated the Word with selfish adherence to their supremacy.
As you swing your legs with boredom, you wonder what it would’ve been like if Things hadn’t Fallen Apart.
What if primal nativity had been allowed to thrive in the tapestry of palm trees, the oil of the ground and the…
