DOA

I took a drive to the church I grew up in. All the houses around it were run down and majority have been abandoned. Trees and ivy consume the fences.

My gasps grew louder the closer I crept to the church parking lot. The neighborhood looked so sad that it was appalling.

I creened my neck to the top of the steeple and noted the mold. I used to take in its majesty, but now my eyes scan the middle and base for a space without mold. The Mocha of the church era died in me.

I remembered when the pastor did a fundraising campaign to get the gravel parking lot paved over with asphalt. He was too excited when it finally happened! The lines dividing the parking spots were the whitest white. The pavement stank of that strong new blacktop smell. The bluest hue illuminated the disabled parking symbols. I remembered thinking how impressed my granddaddy must have been with those.  He parked in the same space, 3 of 5, four times a week for services. He and my grandma pulled up in style with the shiny gold Cadillac, 3 kids holding down the back. (And that’s how they liked to travel, in a pack). I stepped out of the car and reminisced about how it felt to walk down the ramp to freedom after every service… beelining for that space, 3 of 5.

I felt bigger than that memory. Literally physically bigger than that desire. The Reserved Parking signs seemed so tiny. The spaces seemed shorter. The lines were super faded and the asphalt is cracked all over the place. The weeds peeking through the cracks made me realize how long it’s really been. The blind belief Mocha died.

I’m sitting back in my car now, finna spark up. I’m praying for my future husband and planning on a Murchison Facelift Project- bc this shit truly is unbelievable. I’m being me. Finally. I feel alive.