I don't pray, Mom

I call

syrup lashes, blistered lips, ink trails on rippled cheeks

Mom tells me to pray

indignation dripping like the tears

I don't pray, Mom

whispering in the wind doesn't give me peace like some

I call

Sunday boredom, cloudy tea, breezy couplets on wind flung pages

Mom tells me to go to church

apathy spreading like the legs above my head

I don't go to church, Mom

gathering in the steeple's shadow doesn't give me comfort like some

I call

crumpled maps, blurred waymark, spinning tops on compass heads

Mom tells me to read the bible

irritation sprawls wider than my aimless void

I don't read the bible, Mom

everchanging translations don't grant me solace like some

I don't call

My oldest friend calls

Mother's Day, tombstone roses, polaroid memories on tips of tongues

Four-hundred and fifty-three days ago–

Her mom couldn't tell her to pray anymore

but we offered our palms to the sky, questioning the heavens in black hem

Her mom couldn't tell us to go to church anymore

but we drained our eyes, rocking in stained-glass shimmering pews

Her mom couldn't tell us to read the bible anymore

but we recited until dawn, slipping between the paper sheets like blankets

grief deeper than the grave we rested her in

one more motherless woman

I call

cause I can, cause I miss her

we may never understand each other

our beliefs take different shapes

my bible is the letters that don't need signing cause the handwriting is so familiar, the passed down recipes that grandma once cooked, the thoughtful texts without a prompt, the hand-picked books penned with this one reminded me of you

my church is hanging photos on rented walls to remind me of home, washing the sheets for the spare bed for my parents to use, sharing nostalgic cocktails before my sister's flight, sending her home giddily reminiscent and twirling

my prayer is the phone calls punctuated with a hope to talk again soon, the voicemails that simply say, "I love you, call me back," the coffee-stained conversations about weather and Joni Mitchell, my sleeptalk dipping dreams of cloud castles and sandbox oceans into the midnight air

our family, our friendship, our love

is my religion

I reach to call

uneven eyes, sea saw words, mismatched hopes

it may always be this way, stale and stubborn

but at least, above else, I have her, and she me

So

I pick up the phone

dead tone lingering cold–only for a minute

but not forever–not yet, not for a while

I call

and one more time, mom tells me to pray

I usually don't,

but this time I do

because

I need to thank someone, something, anything

the sky above, a sprit below, or just myself, standing here

thankful and beaming

I still have her and she me

and every time

I call

despite it all

she picks up