I object mostly to the lack of love accompanied by professions of love, those honey-coated lozenges of turpentine: “what I wrote was the truth” and “I wasn’t attacking anyone’s beliefs.” I seek opinions widely— some temporarily satisfy some don’t take my bait one asks me about myself. The desire to be right claws its way up my spine like a frantic crab. And then what? I remember her surety at her grandmother’s funeral decades earlier, uttering similar phrases but urging faith. I glimpse a patchwork of images— her tall white outline in the temple my first time through, the spray […]
