sober sunday

I wrote this a year ago.

Sober Sunday by Cameron Harrie

I’m drunk in church. Not my church. If it were, perhaps there would be some measure of guilt bubbling under the surface of my flushed and puffy skin. It’s not a sin, maybe just a faux pas.

There is no one else here, and that was intentional when I decided to stumble in and take

in some breaths that aren’t contaminated by carbon monoxide, methane, sulfur dioxide, the

various chemical components of wood smoke.

The world is on fire. My chest matches. I cough into my hand. Saliva. Mucus. Blood.

I stare into the stained glass windows. The colors blend in a pleasing way, as my head

throbs. I’ve moved past whatever pain existed in my body before. When pain becomes the norm, it’s easy to forget and focus on other sensations: pressure, tightness, pleasure. I reach down and begin to push down on the fly of my pants. I’m touching myself in church.

My heart begins to beat a little stronger. My head throbs with more intensity. I forgot that

feeling leads only to more feeling. I reach in front of me and grab a book of Psalms. It’s

yellowed, the pages are tattered and smudged.

I rifle through and land on a page, in a game of chance, much the same as when I was a

child and spun a globe and wherever my finger stopped it, is where I would eventually live.

Psalm 51:16

You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it; you do not take pleasure in burnt

offerings.

If this were true, O Lord, the world would not be burning from edge to edge the way it is

now. We would not be seeking refuge in the last bits of pleasure we can find. I might not have

downed that bottle of Scotch that was pilfered, not by me, but by the man who looks like me.

The man who sees his story coming to an end and in a state of panic, reaches for anything that will quell, or quench, or satisfy.

I stand up, my knees shaky and weak. I push myself up by the pew in front of me. I

wonder if there is any water here. I walk, slowly, back to the double doors and spot the font and look inside. The water is scummy, green. Tiny bugs are hovering all around it. I dip my finger in and touch it to my forehead. Spectacles, testicles, wallet, watch.

I look back to the stained glass windows behind the altar. Smoke has begun to make its

way inside, forming an eerie, beautiful omen.