Lush, semi-tropical landscapes, bluesy, breezy seascapes—that was “Our Town” of Green Haven, Florida—Paradise, but at a price.
I dreamed of the Great Salt Lake Valley, where the descendants of Brigham Young, like Abraham’s, numbered the sands of the salted sea.
Maybe Mother had always been a Mormon in spirit, for my father’s death had not ended the marriage contract.
They called themselves “elders”, but they were my age. They called themselves Saints, and they were—for that blip in time.
They had no tattoos, but their words left an imprint. They had no piercings, but their words pricked my consciousness, if not my conscience.
The elders, in their shirts and ties, riding bicycles, was incongruous to me, like when people were more sophisticated than their technology.
They said they had a message about Jesus Christ, but it was the carnal, not the spiritual in me, that let them in.
Hearing about Jesus brought back memories of Sunday school long ago, long before Caitlin’s bones had been knitted in my mother’s womb.
Mormonism would make me believe I was lost, but the truth was that it would be after my involvement I would lose myself in it.
A change of life was happening inside all of us, and I was powerless to stop it; they spoke of things unseen, that couldn’t be disproven.