Oak Street

I took a wrong turn onto Oak Street

and there it was:

the white steeple against gray,

the parking lot nearly empty,

maybe two cars,

the marquee with movable letters

saying something about welcome.

I pulled over.

The space between outside and inside

is wider than I remember.

I used to know that door,

the brass handle cold,

the smell of candle wax and carpet,

the particular quiet

of a pew

where you're supposed to listen to God

and mostly listen

to your own doubt,

your own certainty

that you don't belong

and everyone knows it.

The marquee letters

are the kind you have to climb up

and arrange by hand.

Someone does that.

Someone still hopes

a stranger driving past

will read it

and feel

wanted,

like they belong

somewhere.

I didn't get out.

I sat there looking

at the space between

the parking lot and the door,

the space I stopped crossing,

trying to remember

if I stopped on purpose

or if one day

I just woke up

not there anymore,

and I never went back

to notice

when it happened,

or if it happened

at all.

The marquee still said welcome.

I pulled back onto Oak Street.