Higher Power
Dying sunlight crawled through the window
of the chapel at just the right angle to flood my body
with brilliance. In this monument to human desire
I understood religion for the first time, the need
to devour a book promising every answer. How desperately
our species has begged to be told how to live. My mother
rebuked the Bible my entire life, her form of resistance
to an abusive Catholic upbringing. Among her many fears
of what I would internalize from organized religion was that
Eve was designed to spare Adam from walking this world
alone. It was a valiant effort crushed by the dominant
societal messaging that a human being’s worst possible ending
is to die alone, that we are all halves searching for another
to be whole. I’ve fantasized, albeit briefly, about the relief
that must come with becoming a nun, fully relinquishing
the search out of absolute devotion to a being greater than
yourself. Though the prospect of that relief approaches the divine,
I must admit, I would not make a very good nun. I don’t fear hell
and the whole concept of eternal damnation is pretty damn lacking
in imagination. I don’t have better answers for what happens
after we die, though. The closest I ever came to an answer was
in your embrace, two beings blossoming in a tenderness both
singular and universal. I knew then, what it is to be held
by a force greater than myself. That through all of the turns
of this universe, we somehow managed to take all necessary
twists to find each other in this life, though I am convinced
it is not the first. That we will certainly meet again, though
I am afraid in the next life, we will inevitably be praying
mantises and I will chomp off your head. Most of all, I knew
that I couldn’t possibly know any of it, that time would not
stop churning relentlessly above our heads. I once received
a recall notice for my car’s windshield, a warning that it may
not have been properly bonded to the vehicle, allowing it to detach
in a crash. When I finally got an appointment to replace it, they said
it could take up to five days if the windshield shattered upon
removal. In the days I spent waiting, I couldn’t stop imagining
the shattering, glass flying all over the interior. I couldn’t stop hoping
at least a shard would be left behind. I still can’t accept the difference
between windshields being completely imperceptible, that
every day I sit in a vessel irreversibly altered with no witnesses.
Beeper Peddle is a writer and healer living on the East Coast. She lives with her partner and their beloved soul puppy. Beeper writes about sorrows, lies, and deep loves. When you read her work, you will dip down into her heart and end up in all manner of body parts. Should you find yourself reflected in these words, it is merely coincidence; however, it does not surprise her you share the same heart. Find her at bethpeddle.com and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram
Leticia Priebe Rocha (she/her) is the author of In Lieu of Heartbreak, This is Like (Bottlecap Press, 2024). She earned her bachelor’s from Tufts University and was awarded the 2020 Academy of American Poets University & College Poetry Prize. Born in São Paulo, Brazil, she immigrated to Miami, FL and currently resides in the Greater Boston area. Her work has been published in Salamander, Rattle, and elsewhere. Leticia is a Reader for Yellow Arrow Journal and served as Guest Editor for their EMBLAZON issue.
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