True Believer

 I grew up as the one true believer

in a family of doubters.

My father dismissed all things unseen as “hooey.”

My mother attended church from time to time,

but none of it traveled home with her—

Jesus, God, prayer, grace—

and farm girl that she was,

she remarked often

that what our pastor did

wasn’t really work.

My brother lived in our father’s world.

It wasn’t so much that I needed angels,

the breath of the Holy Spirit,

a resurrected Christ,

God.

Rather, I longed for a world beyond

what could be manufactured

in a cement mill.

My dolls sprang to life

when I closed the door to my room.

The brownies of A. A. Milne’s poem hid

behind our living room drapes

and disappeared

every time

I peeked.

My cat spoke to me

at midnight on

Christmas

Eve.

Mostly, though, what I wanted,

wanted more than magic

or creeds

or God,

was for the mystery

that lived in

my heart

to

be

real.

Photo by Marcel Smits on Unsplash‍ ‍