Atrophy of Religion in a 6-year-old

Father’s hair was combed over to the side—
Swept with ease, placed with purpose
His playdough lips laid the same way on his teeth
Like they did every Sunday at 10 am
His robe swung in heavy tufty strides
Pendulum-like in left right left motion
Father’s pupils searched for irises that did wrong
In His judging eyes
My tiny six-year-old knock kneed body rose
“Father, I am sorry for my sins”
“You will be forgiven dear”
This was when I looked at him, week after week—
Constantly seeing nothing, feeling nothing
Left to lie, for my own amusement
“I am sorry for hitting Patrick,
I am sorry for saying curses,
I am sorry for talking back,
I am sorry for stealing Molly’s pencils,
I am sorry for cheating in Science.”
No matter what bullshit fell from my tongue at age six,
I was always forgiven, and I was always going to Heaven by 10:15 am


About laurenfedorko

Aspiring writer. English teacher. Philosophy: know more about the world than you did yesterday and lessen the suffering of others.
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