paint the wall

sunday. for my first twenty years I spent every seventh morning praying with my parents at an altar. we'd sing songs and hold hands, making silent apologies to a judge we couldn't see. mum would give me coins to light candles for the people we worried about most. I'd list my wishes and send them wrapped in thanks and pleas for forgiveness to the clouds. since leaving home my days look different, and every seventh morning is a little much. though I still slide into the shroud of nighttime prayers, I can't quite shake the guilt for leaving empty pews and expectation on the phone. the house of prayer watches over tram tracks: I disappoint and race to someplace else to spend my time.

my costar makes me laugh without opening her mouth. she asks me what I think about the dying marriage between the characters we're creating. I think he wants her back. we both agree he's far too proud to apologise or ask. she's better off without him, though she might miss what they thought it was. you can paint the wall white again and again: it won't change what's underneath.

a holocaust continues. some hundred thousand say enough and cross the bridge through a city I gave up on. will this change what happens next? feeling far from where I am and want to be. I fix the chain back on my bike and wipe the grease onto a tree.