Adele Evershed

My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart.

Grace Farms dazzles as the sun bounces off the virgin snow; it reminds me of something I overheard my father say about my mother, “Pure as the driven snow until she drifted.” When I was older, I discovered it was a Mae West quote; she meant it to be funny, not threatening.

In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good,

My jasmine tea is steaming as I eavesdrop on the dueling bible study groups in the glasshouse café. The women’s group have doorstep bibles and drinks in clear cups so I can judge the strength of their brews and their convictions; the men have laptops and paper cups, so I wonder what they have to hide.

I have sinned against you, whom I should love above all things.

A man as hairless as a monk says, “The driving force of my life is solving problems.” And I wonder why men feel the need to fix everything. My father treated life as one giant Rubik’s cube – a couple of twists, and he could sort anything out, me included.

I firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, to sin no more

A woman with pink hair and a ‘Daughter of the King’ tattoo says, “We can tell people we love them, but that doesn’t always work.” The hairs on my arms stand up, and I shiver as my body remembers way before my mind how my father would tell me he loved me too much.

To avoid whatever leads me to sin.

He’d go to confession and come back as pale as a saint. Then, over Sunday dinner, he’d tell me I needed to help him because he was a good man, really. I’d bite my tongue, and my mouth would flood with blood. Later, he’d put the bins out, and all the bottles he’d emptied that week would ring like alarm bells.

Our Savior Jesus Christ suffered and died for us

My tea is cold now, but I drink it anyway to rid myself of the bitter taste like a scar in my mouth. Both groups end with a prayer. The men are business-like, bowing their heads for a minute, then rumbling ‘Amen’ before turning to talk about the Superbowl and how they never liked Taylor Swift. The women hold hands and pass the prayer around the group, so their voices become a Mexican wave.

In His name. My God, have mercy.

A young mother arrives. She hands her toddler a Tupperware, and he promptly drops the box. The child melts down – the men fold their lips, and the women carry on praying. I rush over and help pick up the goldfish crackers. The bald man looks over, says, “Can’t you control that child? People are praying.” I feel something snap, “Ephesians 4-walk in the manner worthy of the calling…show tolerance for one another in love.” I say looking to the women for support, but they were looking down, still praying.

Adele Evershed is a Welsh writer. Her work has been widely published and she has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize for poetry and short fiction and Best of the Net for poetry. She has two poetry collections, Turbulence in Small Places (Finishing Line Press) and The Brink of Silence (Bottlecap Press). Adele’s novella-in-flash, Wannabe, is available from Alien Buddha Press and her short story collection, Suffer/Rage, is available from Dark Myth Press

Read more from Adele:
Here on Trash Cat Lit – ‘The Diary of a Reluctant Spectroscopist’
Free Flash Fiction – ‘Scenes of War and Other Things I’ve Forgotten’
Janus Literary – ‘I ain’t Got Those Red Dress Blues No More’