4:36 p.m. - Sunday, Nov. 27, 2011
Winifred
When she died, I saw the moons of Jupiter. Four moons. Four generations.
Taking refuge in the hunter, the scent of Bromine lingering on the skin.
When she died, the air smelled like red currant and images mirrored � eightfold like the parts of a choir.
A kaleidoscope of emotion, of senses, of nouns, adjectives, pronouns, and verbs.
Four mothers gathered there. Each holding more tightly than her mother before her.
Suffering the sins of Eve. And rejecting the body of Christ.
But one believer, holding tightly, not wanting to feel or acknowledge feeling . . .
One believer could be born again. If the ancient lineage could be broken.
I closed my eyes against her. Against all of my mothers.
As hard as we tried . . .all four generations of women . . .we felt.
We ran from the church. We ran from each other.
As quickly as we had come, we had gone.
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