Take me to Church

By Blato

I need to eat.  I walk to the grocers.  I step outside my apartment building.  Scrawled on the ground is a political message.  It urges us to accept the “green new deal” and “universal basic income”.  I walk over it—try to scuff it with my shoes.  It doesn’t work.  I keep walking.  I walk by my local Church.  The windows are smashed out—a reminder of a forgotten Kristallnacht.  The sign in front of the Church reminds the faithful that they can now worship inside, instead of online.  The government, in its grace, allows it.

The streets are alive with people wearing bright orange shirts.  The government, in its grace, has made a new holiday to honor native Canadians.  The government, in its mercy, has granted itself the day off with pay—paid for by the people.    Online, a native woman reminds us to only buy orange shirts from natives.  I won’t wear the shirt, but I agree. 

I wonder how many of these shirts were made in China—by the dragon.  How much of my nation’s money supported the genocide there in the name of the past atrocity here?  How much money went to the dragon?  And how much money, via tax, went to the government?—The perpetrator of the past atrocity?  Yeah, she’s right about the shirts.  But—just a thought—don’t buy a shirt.  Instead of buying a shirt—to be seen—give to a charity and be unseen.  Just give.  Just give a simple tax-deductible donation—and starve the dragon. 

I approach the grocers.  I see a woman exiting.  She’s veiled.  Her head is cowed.  Her hands are clasped.  “Is she praying,” I think to myself.  As I approach, I see her hands rubbing together.  She’s rubbing an alcohol mixture into them—purifying them.  She keeps her medically approved veil on as she walks by, basking in God’s glorious sun.  

Outside the grocers is a sign.  It reads “No Mask, No Entry”—the government, in its wisdom, has so decreed.  Inside a voice booms overhead—as if from the heavens.  It thanks us for donning a mask and remaining distant from our fellow man.  When the voice ends, it’s replaced with rock and roll music.  The sort of music from my father’s generation.  The sort of music that symbolized rebellion.  It plays quietly in the background—mockingly.

I say to myself “for Christ’s sake, take me to Chruch.”