At the age of 18, I was finally getting my driver’s license, when I had been content to tag along with David wherever he went.
Food Storage Inventory Exchange was like a cookie exchange, except instead of swapping cake balls for brownie bites, it was rice for beans.
I knew God didn’t care whether I could cook, bake, or sew, for He had given us each different talents, but in the Church, the fluidity of gender roles had frozen in retro time.
I’d accepted Mother just the way she was, even as she had accepted that though I loved her very much, I loved David more.
I’d been given the gift of the Holy Ghost at baptism, but perhaps I hadn’t been worthy enough to unwrap it.
Had I a testimony, my heart would’ve been closed to Elder Roberts, & my heart would’ve been opened for another.
My mother’s home style was minimalist, her color, monochrome. It wasn’t till the Mormons came that our lives were infused with vintage color & became a sort of Pleasantville.
Leann & I worked on our sugar cube temple for Relief Society Enrichment Meeting, & I thought how much the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth resembled a glistening piece of Candyland. A gingerbread house, without the warmth or frills.
Our fridge had never been cluttered with magnets holding up candid pictures or childish artwork or the hundreds of little notes that tiled Leann’s fridge.
