we both remember all too well the day that they packed together our sins in a time capsule and placed them up high in the rafters of church.

some days, when i should be praying,
i crane my neck up to the ceiling and stare at the white box, memories crawling up my throat as i sing the hymns.

sometimes i wonder what we'll be reduced to in 30 years,
and i wonder what i thought ten years ago when i placed a wilted daisy in beside my mother's pride.
nestled between family pictures and grade school letters, a worshipper's time machine.

we stood there at the back, I think,
and watched as the priest climbed the ladder towards heaven,
box in his hand,
the sanctuary remodeled.
and although we didn't know it then,
a flower blooming.

my mother picked the fabric for the pews, the type of scroll that looks best with your eyes closed,
and my neighbor picked the tile for the altar, the cheapest we could afford.
(god sees no price signs, honey. it might as well be dirt and a star, always a star)

i do confess that it's been a while since i've confessed,
but the only person i could talk to was you, no hush lipped alleluias, no dark screen confessional monster in my closet.

i could only talk to you.

you put a note in the chest all those years ago,
signed it in forest green crayon,
sealed it with a sticker.

let it fall as it may,
and never told a soul.

i wonder if one day it might fall,
as father lifts up the hosts and god is with us,
i wonder if one day it will crash,
and everything it has to offer will be laid bare,
and we can run from the pews like the huddled masses we are,

just to see what the past has left for us.