Photo by Abenezer Mesfin on UnsplashMy sister pays a witch from Etsy to cleanse her, and her house fills with fleas. There are moments when the gutters need cleaning and my dinner needs a protein and God’s presence feels as sure and unimportant as my cousin’s shitty boyfriend watching the Lakers in the living room.
At my age, my great-grandfather shot a protestant and fled Belfast. At my age, my grandfather dropped out of seminary for my grandmother’s hands. He died when I was fifteen. He and his seven siblings grew up in the Irish part of Providence, sandwiched between a middle school and a toxic waste dump. A few years back, my great-aunt’s brain was consumed by prions so rare, the government claimed her body. It was a type of mad cow disease. Everybody’s dying these days, my mom had said. I tried looking at pictures of infected tissue, but I couldn’t tell the difference between a rotted brain and not. They all believed that if the revolution didn’t save them, God would.
On Christmas, we eat with the family silver, which was supposedly a gift from the IRA. Not to be insensitive, but maybe they would’ve won the war if they spent their money on something other than engraved forks.
On Tuesdays, I play rec basketball down the street and take videos of smog-laden sunsets. At my age, my mom had two kids and a job she hated. She had just started going back to church.
My grandfather was raised on the coast, spent his teens working docks and sailboats. He once tried to teach me, but I was more focused on falling in on purpose. He told me that the price of waking up is being alive. I wish people would stop congratulating me for it.
