A Restless Girl in Church

Your mother moved you to the front pew, dangling anemic legs and all. And there you sit, hardly patient, while the pastor or the priest — which is it, you forget, or do not know — makes a sound that sounds like talking. The wrinkled fabric of your best dress, black like a penitent mourner, and sleeveless as though you dared defy the sanctity — the stability — of the minds that would wander along the leg, upon the frill, over the bodice, in dutiful electric circuits. You are still, still as youth can be. You stand on command, and sit, too. The organ plays, the choir shrill, but oh how they look so sweet, dressed all the same, it is a shame their voices could not be so.