She always believed in God,
A higher power that I could never understand.
A painting of The Last Supper in her living room
That terrified me for years
And eventually just made me angry.
Soon, I was old enough to question.
“Grandma, how can you believe in this deity that invented the ink used on your skin?”
But she replied that her God got her out of The Holocaust
And gave her a brighter future because of her prayers.
“Grandma, your first husband was killed by a car,
Did this not destroy your faith?”
But she replied that God made her friends with the driver’s family
And that friendship was a great virtue we should all strive for.
Her final days,
A mere 63 years ‘lived’,
Strapped up to a million wires
Unable to move
Unable to speak.
“Surely now you are angry at your God,
Not even seeing you, after all your work to praise him?”
I felt her squeeze my hand as she died.
I wish I had her faith
She had a smile right at the end
And here I am getting angry at everything.
The vicar nodded at me at the funeral
Pressed his hands together and sent me a blessing.
I felt nothing,
I tried to believe, but the endless tragedies were too much to ignore.
I burned that Last Supper painting
And with it my final speck of religious empathy ran through the door.