Behind the Screen

The church door was open,

and I could see straight through to the booth—

wooden, dark, the latticed screen

catching the little light that made it to the back.

It smelled like polish and old air,

the kind of smell that lives in places

where people come to be sorry.

It looked like a phone booth,

or a ticket window,

or a place where you could say something

that no one else was supposed to hear.

I stood in the doorway long enough

that it started to feel deliberate,

like I was considering it,

like I was the type of person

who might actually go inside and kneel.

The screen would hide your face.

That's the point, I think.

You could be anyone in there,

or everyone,

or just the worst version of yourself

that you haven't told anyone about.

I tried to think of what I would say

if I actually went in,

if I actually knelt on that bench

and looked at the silhouette on the other side

and told the truth for once.

But even in my head,

even with the screen between us,

even with the guarantee of forgiveness

I don't actually believe in,

I couldn't say it.

The words stayed folded in my chest,

stayed private,

stayed the thing I'll never be brave enough to admit

even to a stranger

even in the dark

even when the point is to confess.

I turned around and left.

The door closed behind me.

The light outside was too bright,

and everyone could see my face.