I resent time for moving too quickly, circumstance for moving me across the country, the organist for skipping the second verse. I resent him for not being Bob Griffith, for not playing on a Steinway Grand alongside Rev. McGee, a mere two yards away from our front row seats. For not promising a waltz or a rag time in the postlude...
For making me homesick for something to which I can never return. For taking my voice away rather than helping me know what to say, when I call Grandmom in a chipper voice after the service.
For playing “Spirit of Life” above me, rather than in front of me, so that I might watch his hands and he might hear my tears. For not knowing that it’s Granddaddy’s favorite, not stopping to pause for even a second, respectfully, before allowing the minister to begin his weekly sermon.
My throat closes in anaphylactic protest, and I wonder how long it takes for one’s voice to truly come back.