My Dear Friend...

My dear friend,
We miss you on Park Avenue
Voices keep in liminal spaces here
They’re echoes remain there until the reverberation diminishes to a permanent whisper.
I spent many hours waiting
Waiting in the narthex or the chapel to hear you calling
Did you ever call back?
Did you hear my prayer?
But what I didn’t know was they were there all the time
In the walls
Each and every past version of myself resides there for now, and always
The conservative hemlines and itchy wool stockings of our childhood
Ingrained in these walls like the women’s association imprisoned in Watson hall.
Wandering the bazaar of the Christmas fair for all eternity
Do you know what is in this season?
Could you advise me on what to buy for my sister?
I can’t remember when I got here, but I don’t want to leave
On a hot summer night, our husbands barbecue stalls on late in the garden
Where the air is free and breathing is easy
That’s what we get for leaving them all alone in the city
We must be bad wives
Do you believe in God?
Away from Park Avenue people don’t seem so sure anymore.
We used to smoke in the staircase on a Thursday night
On the Friday in late October, that you remember, you were all alone at a crossroads
Looking out the big window on the seventh floor
As if to see the future ahead of you
Do you remember how many paces it takes to get from Park to fifth?
Did you ever lose count?
Is it OK that I don’t know how to get around anymore?
That I never learned how to drive?
I still look down at my hands in Watson hall and see a child’s hands looking back at me.
The processional reminds me of being 13 and not of being in senior year.
Walking confidently thinking I’d never lose people I’ve long lost
Mom would make us run back from a sleepover
To make it back to church on Sunday morning
We’d leave the city on a Friday night just to come back on Sunday morning
Do you remember when Lily asked if our pastor was God?
That pastor is long gone
Still, the sentiment doesn’t age well
My boyfriend tells me I’m not a Christian
That it doesn’t make sense
That the things I believe don’t align with the faith, I claim to be a part of
Clearly, he’s never had an encounter with the ghosts on Park Avenue
When the staircase rattles in the winter
Do you remember those voices we heard?
Didn’t you hear them too?
You heard them to
Do you think there is a God?
Do you still believe in God?
Are you still there? God.
Sincerely
Your friend from Park Avenue.