a short story
I pray backwards.
“That’s sacrilegious,” Mama tells me when I get around to mentioning it, but Mama’s only a child herself, barely 25 years old. She still wears short dresses, her knees flashing at God as she sits in the pew and I know the certainty will fade from her face as the wrinkles start to stake their claim. I should bring the topic up again when we’re both older, she might…