My father doesn’t believe in God the way
he thinks he should. There will always be barriers between the holy and the tangible, and today, it’s Big Bang vs Genesis. I think this world will never have the answers for bare feet on the water’s surface. But still, he is suffering, too. My mother believes the moonlit garden where we were born is pure. My father sees the other half. God is not limited to beauty; the world he built is far from perfection. It is blossoming with faith thin as the broken breath between sips of coffee gone cold. Tension tethers to our living room gilded by dawn. My father
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my mother believes, but when he sees her,
stained glass and baptismal waters shifting between what is known and what is felt, he feels obligated to choose. Worries that resurrection, water deepening to wine, and sin cannot be explained. If God is salvation, he is Monet’s lily pads, each lotus sunset, and the earth we are buried in. For her, this answers everything, creates all. But divinity encompasses heartbreak, hatred, death, ignorance and childhood leukemia and trigger fingers. My father rests, takes my mother’s hands, and silence swaths doubts. Much like God asks, though, he
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believes in being good, no matter what follows death. I’m not sure there’s a difference.
Annabelle Smith is a student at Franklin & Marshall College in Lancaster, PA. She has received national recognition for her work in poetry from Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. More of her work can be found in Spotlong Review, Potomac Review, Black Coffee Review, and other journals.