The dogwoods are blooming in my front yard. It is almost Easter. "Jesus's cross was made out of dogwoods," my mee-maw told me when I was a little girl. "You see the pink around the center? That's Jesus's blood."
Mee-maw was a Southern Baptist. I remember going to church with her sometimes. A lot of standing and singing and praying, sitting and standing and singing again. My grandpa was a Methodist. He told me the Baptists play their organs real fast.
The dogwoods are blooming. Limbs stretch across the yard. I can see the pink.
There is an Episcopal church down the street from where I work. I see the sign on the exit ramp every morning: "Saint Luke's Welcomes You". I drive past. I'm always late.
But this morning, the sign was different. Someone placed a large white bumper sticker across it that read: "Emory University Hospital Killed My Mom."
My mom says she smells funeral flowers just before someone close to her dies. She always thinks she's dying.
The Southern Baptists play their organs. Limbs stretch. I feel the pink beneath the sheets.
When you're inside me, it is almost Easter.
