My Mother Bought Me a Crucifix

I hadn’t been to church in months. I didn’t plan on ever going again. It was just something I had decided like to drink only two nights a week instead of five. So, when my mother and father came to visit, she picked up a palm-size crucifix from one of the small Amish shops on the way.

After I had ripped the tissue paper away from Jesus’s thin wooden legs and arms, I said, “thank you” and poured myself two glasses of wine—one for my mother too.

“I thought you probably wouldn’t want it . . .” she began as I handed her the glass.

“No,” I took a swig, “thank you.”

I have only ever returned/turned down one gift in my life: a Hanson t-shirt that I got for Christmas from my father. I regretted returning it a year later and still do. It was one of the few things he had ever picked out for me by himself.

After they left, I tacked Jesus above my bed adjacent to the dream catcher that hovered. . . . I still have nightmares. I can only hope that the crucifix won’t be dud either.