My aunt always told me religion was my problem. A lack of one, more specifically. Annabelle was opinionated about everything. She enjoyed cigarettes, free booze, and men who supplied both. One month a democrat, most months a lunatic, she was forever selling out, allowing whichever man to sway her mind.
Annabelle had a reputation. An affair years earlier, with a fellow church attendee’s husband, condemned her to a life of wariness among the congregation’s married wives. She tried to absolve herself when it happened.
They just moved to town. I didn’t know he was married, Annabelle said, her voice tinged with beer as she tilted her head and smiled, feigning innocence at a church picnic.
Bless your heart, a displaced southerner, and closest in proximity to Annabelle, replied with a rehearsed smile before excusing herself.
Annabelle’s defense fell on deaf ears as those nearby turned away to refresh their lemonade. She had a pew to herself after that day, others in the small congregation, always polite but keeping themselves, and their husbands, at a respectable distance.
Annabelle never missed a Sunday service, even on the mornings she hadn’t returned home from the night before.
The church saves me, Annabelle would say to my mother as she walked into the house, high off the morning’s sermon and reeking of stale beer. I sat on the couch, the television on, looking around as I watched Annabelle smile a devious smile- a smile you wouldn’t expect one to wear, having just left god’s house.
What exactly has the church saved her from? I’d wonder.
My mother and I lived with Annabelle, the house a generational heirloom, its title passed to the least fucked up among the family tree. I would join Annabelle and my mom in the kitchen, grabbing us three chipped plates from a warped cabinet. Specks of lead paint landed on the counter as the cabinet slammed shut and I happily skipped over to the table.
Annabelle would light a cigarette as she placed bagels, taken from the church, on the kitchen table and asked my mother about her night. My mother would smirk before answering, sharing details of the church she had attended. Secondhand smoke clouded around my face as I stood and silently prayed for one of the bagels to have chocolate chips. They never did and so began my hatred for organized religion.
But you don’t go to church, Mom, I would chime in.
My words met with the rolling of her eyes.
No shit, Cass, my mom would say before continuing to describe the man she’d knelt before. How they prayed together, her body confessing as she was baptized among the dingy sheets draping a lumpy mattress. My aunt would shake her head, half-heartedly berating my mother while questioning who this holy man was.
I was seven, absorbing my mother’s words, as they mixed with the haze of secondhand smoke. Age-appropriate board games laying untouched mere feet away as I, instead, learned the rules of an adult game. Coffee brewing in an outdated machine as the three of us enjoyed a pleasant Sunday breakfast. The ocean, tiding in the distance as the sun shined down.
A new day upon us.
Her Pen At Midnight 
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