Greenwood Methodist

In my very early years, before even the age of 2, I somehow acquired the ability to memorize churches, what the sermon would be that week, who the minister was, and what the difference by faith were. I would cut out pictures of churches from the newspaper and dazzled people with my ecumenical knowledge. Somehow, I forgot it all, except for the Greenwood Methodist, because I even wrote a song about it that we used to sing in the car with my parents.

Twenty years later, I drove down Mile Hill every single night, as I was dating someone a few towns over. It’s called Mile Hill because, well, It’s a mile straight down. And down that hill I drove, so sure of my every 2 AM trek that I could and did drive home asleep. I’d always wake up near the Greenwood Methodist or the Tic Toc Market, because that meant I was at Mile Hill and once I got to the bottom, I’d be back home.

Most of the time, my travels down that road were questioning. I had no idea what or who I was going to be. I didn’t know why I was with who I was with. And all I wanted to do was keep driving down Mile Hill. I wish this curvy, winding road would never end, never take me past Park Lanes and the log cabin at the end.

Near the Greenwood Methodist, when I was younger, someone kept a gaudy neon pink Christmas tree up all year long. Some nights, late home from Ohio with my parents, it was the only light illuminating the road and comforted me.

Years now back into what would be the future and is now the past, eyes nearly teared from something said, I’d wish and pray that that Christmas tree would light back up, that I could remember what house it was at. I dreamed that inside the 2 AM night airs that I could see that pink beacon beckoning me, telling me what would make it all right. I could almost see it, close enough, white horses on each tinseled branch, but at the time, it was all I could do to keep my car on the road.

Photo - N
Words - S