Category: Photography

· 1 ·

In the hour before Sunday service started, the younger members of my congregation— myself included— would attend a rudimentary Sunday School. There, we would learn the basics of Christianity, bible stories and their meanings, and, as years went by, we would begin to discuss how we each individually approached and understood the concept of faith.

But it was very hard to pay attention, since the couch I’d sit on would prove to be much more comfortable than one could imagine.

That couch was made of this really smooth yellow leather, the wrinkles and stress that scarred it probably signifying the piece of furniture had been around for at least a decade or two. I can’t say it would’ve been justified to throw it out since that thing was soft, incredibly so, the naturally cool temperature of the room that surrounded it often turning its cushions into these cold, pillowy, clouds of comfort.

Soft to the touch, I can still go on and on at how many times I’d just sink into that couch, blissfully unaware of whatever our lesson was and fully allowing myself the pleasure of pretending my parents had just let me stay at home and stay in bed for a few more hours.

“Do You Like To Learn About God?”

I’d be floating on airs half the time I’d go through the motions of Sunday School. The room’s blue paint and lack of artificial light often meaning the most coloration I’d be surrounded by would be the easy white glow of an early morning sun.

I can easily admit that this setting definitely made me sleepy, not bored. I was happy to be there. The lessons and bits of scripture we’d be taught often sticking in my head like a persistent fog of words and jargon.

I was taught to love my neighbor, to understand the importance of honesty, and to believe that, no matter what, we had a place to go when we’d die.

I was taught to understand that, no matter what, there is a God. He was to be understood as ever present and all-loving, not a single thing on this beautiful Earth being able to escape His vision, or, His judgement.

“I Like To Think About God.”

Sunday School to me was a place to rest, but never sleep. I could get in the in-between of conscious thought and a delightful, sleepy, haze but I’d never fully indulge in whatever reprieve my body wanted. Of course, this was mostly due in part to the fact that I wasn’t really alone there, no matter how much it would seem like the only thing I could hear was the gentle fraying motion of my hands brushing up against the leather of that cool, yellow couch.

· 2 ·

Me and my Mama would shop at the local dollar store after every service as if the routine were a part of the worship itself.

Every time we’d visit, a golden hue of an oncoming noon painted the store, its plastic signs and endless products glistening and shimmering with a sheen of artificial value. To me, this sight always bewildered me as the endless aisles of the twinkling snacks, cheap toys, and paperback books all had this sort of honest charm to them. Each and every product bathed in this golden light as if they wanted to show a bit of self esteem in those lifeless shelves.

It was warm there, the thick haze of aging air and poor ventilation falling on me like a blanket, the shimmering sun doing wonders here as well as it was easy to feel comfortable in a place where your skin always had a bit of glow to it.

I’d play with my fingers a lot as my Mama walked me up and down the short but endless aisles. She’d spend a childhood’s eternity carefully inspecting the varied array of spices, discount chips, and Bible coloring books, the whole ordeal doing very little to grab my young attention. In the rare moments of mercy where she’d let me run off, I’d always end up staring at the magical row devoted to brightly colored toys and plastic guns.

“I Wish I Had A Gun.”

I’d find myself lost in that toy aisle, thought sludge and daydreams flowing through my head as I’d imagine the fights I’d be in or the kingdoms I’d build. I wanted to be a soldier, a policeman, a cowboy. I wanted to fight for the honor of that aisle and tell stories of the warzones I’d endured and the opponents I’d overcome to the plastic companions I’d befriended along the way. 

To a simpler me, this routine, this perpetual campaign of visits and post-church errands, was as perpetual and indistinguishable from the flow of times and seasons itself. I always wanted to play, I always wanted to snack, and I always had to go with my Mama. Whether it was Spring, Fall, Summer, or Winter, that store was the pillar of my life’s consistency, the be all and end all of where my daydreams would take me and where they’d mingle with the crusting knots of an uncleaned rug floor for all of time’s infinite crawl.

No matter what, I would always, and could only, end up there with Mama. For toys, for food, for pencils, for presents, for medicine, for shampoo, for detergent, and for her.

I never felt like I’d be old enough to shop there on my own, its vast arrays of complex colors and sounds being far too difficult for someone as perpetually young as me to ever fully understand.

Maybe I just don’t have the heart for that kind of thinking, or even worse, the wallet.

It will always be the place my Mama brings me.

“Some Things Never Change.”

· 3 ·

There’s something about cheeseburgers that makes them very easy to crave. I think it has something to do with the juiciness that a good one can bring. It’s strange when you think of it, the last thing you want with something bread based is an overstay of moisture, but a good, juicy —almost creamy— cheeseburger that has been dolloped with a generous helping of mayo and ketchup is something that’s incredibly difficult to ignore the allure of.

“You know how bad this could be for you if things get difficult? You’re… What’s the word, noter- nota- notarized. You’re notarized there,”  Moses finished taking a small sip of his soda before continuing, “Notarized… is that the right word Aaron?”.

“That’s exactly it,” Aaron answered as she took a massive bite out of her sandwich, her large jaw practically unhinging to cram as much of the burger as she physically could into her still talking mouth. “You said you sign a lot of paperwork every time you clock out right?” she asked me with a hiccup, “All they need is the slightest hint that you’re involved and you’re screwed for life, retail leaves a paper trail.”

“You Won’t Have To Worry About A Thing.”

· 4 ·

I’m a cashier at that dollar store now. Its historic shelves are now a part of my daily routine, the hands that once twirled onto themselves in indecision now hard at work at keeping things stocked, cleaned, and efficient. If I’m given an early shift, the golden glow that stuck to me in my youth helps keep me focused, It’s continued presence being somewhat of a nostalgic comfort as it keeps me warm even as the air outside turns cold and crisp. 

That familiar sense of place makes me happy to be an employee there, my thoughts flitting constantly between scattered scenes of childhood ignorance and present day responsibility, the overstocked aisles still feeling just as alien as they did all those years ago.

As the sun sets however, the white and artificial glow of the buzzing lights replaces any remaining piece of childhood wonder with a hollow pit of exhaustion. The closing routine begins and I find myself vacuuming the same floors, typing out the same credentials, and signing paper after paper of bureaucratic bookkeeping and quality assurance.

On Sundays, I help deliver the day’s bank deposit, that specific routine being a little more involved since we need to do whatever we can to deter a robbery. At this point, paranoia sets in.

When my manager is bringing out the deposit, they’ll stand in wait at the door as I drive my car up to pick them up and drive them over to theirs safely. The 20 second window between them locking up the store behind them and hopping into my car is the only time the deposit is under any sort of outside risk.

Thou Shalt Not Steal.

· 5 ·

As I began to understand the intention behind the lessons I was being taught at Sunday School, I also began to understand just how lonely that place could feel, though it wasn’t the kind of solitary loneliness that drives someone to longing. I had friends, people to talk to, and the presence of others was always felt and present.

No, the loneliness here was because, despite all of this, it always felt as if I were only talking to myself.

When lessons would drone on and much of the class fell silent into a stupor of boredom, I’d be the first to step up and answer whatever questions I could. I’d bounce back the answers I knew our teacher would need to hear and, in turn, I’d get a few kind smiles from both her and my classmates as my continued participation meant less accusations of laziness would be directed towards the group.

I can’t say I wasn’t having my own fun in this educational back and forth, it felt as if I was being used.

Nobody truly cared for what I’d been spouting, they only cared that I said the right thing at the right time, though for many, this was more than enough to convince them I was truly hoping for the promise of eternal bliss.

I’d talk of my appreciation for the sacrifice that people like the Hebrews had made for their loved ones, to allow themselves to be tortured, used, worshipped, and sanctified all for the sake of a God they had to believe in just on the principle of trust and faith. Martyrs and Saints became the stuff of legends to me, and when I’d speak of how often I’d look up to these figures, the smiles and praise I’d be given would far outweigh any religious vindication saying such things would grant. To be faithful, for me, was to be loved.

But this never changed the separation, the mental solitude that kept me from honestly understanding what I had wanted from this class or these people. They liked the things I’d say and the affirmations of the good that kind hearts and good faith can bring. I was the resident child prophet for that cold, blue, room, but sometimes I felt that even my peers could see through what I was doing.

I was loud mouthed and overly zealous. No one my age could truly care this much about the contents of a Book too big to even consider reading through in its entirety. Why would I, the space cadet obsessed with a yellow couch, be the one to step up and adore the word of God?

I had become addicted to the act, solitary in my addiction to putting on a “pious” appearance and chained to screeching thoughts and lessons I didn’t truly believe in… but did I?

I thought a lot about Heaven when I was young. I thought of playing cards with my grandparents and talking to my idols. I dreamed of living in a golden tent amongst an endless field of clouds, of eating from a banquet just for the joy of consumption, and adoring myself and my peers for all of an eternity. But one Sunday, my thoughts taught me something excruciating.

“If You Can’t Die In Heaven, What If You Get Bored?”

· 6 ·

I can’t go to church anymore.

I work.

I think.

I miss my Mama.

I talk to myself.

And I talk to some other people.

I work at the store with a golden hue.

I’m old enough to earn money here.

I’m old enough to keep it up and running.

But I’m not old enough to be alone here.

Because I still think I should be here with my Mama.

I stare down the aisles as the sunset comes.

I remember the warmth I felt.

I see candy bags twinkle and plastic cups shimmer.

I see office supplies gloss over with their inky blacks.

I see canned goods shine with a metallic twinkle.

I see toys.

I see Mama.

I feel bad.

· 7 ·

The store was incredibly busy on the last Sunday night before Halloween. This wasn’t unexpected as a LOT of people tend to leave this sort of shopping to the absolute last second so we made sure to keep our things stocked.

We did a double our usual amount of candy stocking, made sure that all of our décor for sale was up to snuff, and even went out of our way to keep things festive by throwing up some cheap cloth ghosts and paper ribbons wherever we could afford to use the space.

It was nice to see so many people come in from the cold smiling, their moods immediately perking up as they soon found out that we had exactly what they were looking for to keep them well prepared for the night of trick-or-treating and costume parties ahead.

Soon things became a blur of oranges, blacks, whites, and yellows. Each beep of the scanner and the crumple of bags changing hands and money coming in and out of the till created a sonic bedspread of familiarity. Slowly, even as the night turned white and silent, that nostalgic fire re-lit again as the magic of a good night’s worth of work mingled with the familiar smell of candy corn and scented candles.

My manager comes up to congratulate me on the hard work, a few chuckles indicating we’ll have to spend some time tonight making sure all the money is well accounted for as to avoid any possible miscounts for the undoubtedly massive take.

I laugh with her, saying that this kind of night is always something I’ve always hoped of having, the businesses, the festivity, and the aromas all coming together to reform the idealized picture of this comfortable little dollar store that my heart has always held.

But something in me curdles at these words. It’s almost a sickening feeling, the kind of bitterness that builds up in your stomach when you drink something rotten and sweet.

It’s a feeling of loneliness, of abandonment, not on yourself be to those around you.

I felt deeply perverted, and extremely excited all at the same time. It was my last day working here and I’m both happy things got to be so special but incredibly guilty for how my time here will end.

The night lights shift on as the purifying glow of white iridescence brings me back into focus as I start to feel a cold sweat come over me. I check out our last remaining customers with shaky hesitation, some hoping I feel better soon as my skin uneasily turns a shade lighter

I want to run and shake off my nerves screaming, I want my arms to feel less like spindled guitar strings, their erratic twitches and crude feeling reverberating erratically against my chilly body.

I feel the same pit of fear and uncertainty grip my stomach as it had when I first felt myself questioning my lessons, the terror of choosing between an eternity in obliviousness or an infinite amount of time in conscious space breaking me down to my core as I forgot exactly why I had chosen to go through with this.

“It Has Always Been My Dream.”

· 8 ·

Sunday School taught me to rest. 

In our brief meditations I’d always stare out the small glass window we had up on the far wall. It pointed out towards the parking lot, the small trees and apartments that surrounded it doing little to block the empty blue sky that always hung over our lessons during the colder months of the year.

These moments gave me pause. At first, I’d think of games and daydreams, always wishing to be somewhere else but here. I’d think of action and tragedy, a life without rules and entertainment without limits as the cold touch of boredom clenched my idle fingers tightly. But this wasn’t to last, as soon I’d think of the banality of the room, the peaceful look of a group of people huddled together in shut-eye unity. Were they praying? Was I supposed to pray? Or were we told to clear our minds? I know I can’t do either.

I’d start to crave sleep, but of course, it never came. My dreams would stay pinned to the sunlight, and my thoughts would blur together. The ticking of a clock, the details of a whiteboard, the feeling of a couch. Am I alone? Can They hear my thoughts? Are They asking the same, or are we different? Can we be different?

Our teacher would quickly bring things back to order as our shared reverie ended. We talked of sin, and punishment, and our fears of the infinite. We talked of thoughts, love, and opinions and, for once, I revealed something true. Something undoubtedly me. Something undoubtedly Mama, who loved, and loved, and loved, and loved.

“I Don’t Believe In Hell.”

· 9 ·

One afternoon, me and my Mama went to the dollar store to pick out some decorations for the Fall. Every year, I loved finding another ceramic candle-house to add to a large collection I was bringing. They were small, decorative, and very exciting to organize as it made me feel as if I ran my own little village of friends and neighbors.

When we entered, the golden glow was bathing me and mama with its welcome embrace once more, I went straight for the nearest display and stood in awe as I looked at each of the little houses. There were cozy cottages, barn houses, and grain mills that all looked like a perfect addition to this year’s community.

Mama smiled as she stood beside me rubbing my head with a gentle to and fro, twisting and curling whatever strands of my hair her fingers fell on with a light tug.

Distracted by the affection, as I went to grab the house of choice, a small wooden ranch-house, my hand accidentally brushed against a little grain silo, knocking it off the shelf.

It’s Okay, It’s Okay, It’s Okay You Didn’t Mean To Do It.

· 10 ·

I came up with the plan when I decided I was going to quit.

Since the deposit always needs to be delivered every Sunday night, it was best to time it so that we’d be moving a lot of money. Halloween was to Fall that coming Monday, meaning there would be a lot of commotion going in and out of the store to get things prepared last minute, making for a sizable cash deposit needing to be made that very night.

As we began to close up shop I sent a quick text to Aaron and Moses to get them into position near the side of the store.

“I always get so nervous that we close this late… parking lot’s too big, can’t see who’s trying to make a move,” My manager told me as we made our way to the front door, a bulging envelope of cash sticking out from the corner of her handbag. “It isn’t safe, though you’re smart for never having to do this again,” She told me with a chuckle.

“I’m Going To Miss It Here.”

“We’ll miss you too! It’s been a good long while hasn’t it?” She motioned me to stay close to her as she pulled out some keys to unlock the door.

I looked behind me at the silent and darkened store. Its shelves were stagnant, shadowed by the lack of light. The rich and colorful displays of products, toys, and banners all stood monochrome, stopped in time itself as the lack of light obscured any friendly details out of sight.

It wasn’t warm anymore, but neither did it seem frozen by the lack of light. It was waiting, pushing me on to make my next move as I left the world I had built there behind me, my head going numb with a dull pain as the shelves, tills, and decorations all stared at me with abject disappointment… Or was it relief?

I could only stare back, for just a moment I felt the soul of the store pass through me as my manager finally opened the door, the cold Fall air pulling me to where I was destined to go.

Now, things were truly over, and all I could see was a decrepit store waiting for the end of time itself to come and take it.

My manager poked her head out of the door to make sure things were clear for me to leave, a quiet nod and a whisper of “Good Luck” pointing me towards where my car was parked just a few steps across the road, a tall street light illuminating it in the all but abandoned expanse of a quiet parking lot.

I walked over quickly, my hands deep within my pockets as the night air swelled around me in a bitter cold. As I got near the car door I caught a glimpse of my reflection, my features barely aged past from when I was just a kid but still weathered enough to show that above all else I was tired. My breath fogged up the image as I opened the door and stepped into my car, my shaking fingers sending out a final text of preparation to let them know it was time.

“It Always Feels Like I’m Only Ever Talking To Myself.”

· 11 ·

Mama taught me never to steal. That being bad was something she couldn’t forgive me for. She told me to keep my hands to myself and to always say “Please” and “Thank You”.

Mama taught me to pray every night before bed, especially when I felt bad about something, since by the time I’d wake up things would already be getting better.

Mama taught me that I was to be kind to strangers and gentle with my friends, so that no matter what, they would know how much I loved them.

I thought about all this as I brought the car around to the front of the store, my manager looking at me through the locked glass door one last time as I gave her the all clear signal.

As she stepped out quickly and locked the door behind her, Aaron and Moses were there to greet her with loud shouts, masked faces, and loaded handguns.

They ordered me to step out of the car.

“Do You Want To Meet God?”

They left as soon as they came, my manager and I staring blankly at the torn open envelope and the few scattered coins that they let fall freely on the freezing asphalt.

We said our goodbyes silently, a huff of disappointment and exhaustion escaping her as she refused to pick up what little money had been left behind and instead suggested it’d be best if we just walked away happy to still have our lives.

I drove back home with my head in the clouds, my tongue feeling numb as I replayed the scene over and over again, my thoughts slowly melting away into another golden memory of what that store had given me.

As I sat on the ground bawling at the broken ceramic silo, my Mama scooped me up and brought me close to her chest, cooing gently and telling me how I didn’t have to worry so much.

She told me it was only an extra dollar, just one other dollar she’d have to pay for the tiny accident and that I was still allowed to get the little house that I wanted. She said that no matter what, even if I had a bad day, even if I had some small accidents, I always deserved to be happy.

“I Love You Very Much.”

I was too young to shop there. Did anyone else tell me that? They might have been right in the end. I was always too young. I was too busy floating on clouds, dreaming on big yellow couches, and waiting for that golden glow to realize I would never be big enough to shop there.

I thought about Sunday School when I held my share of the money in my hands. I thought about those cold lonely Sundays, those long shifts of working and waiting, the emptiness of trying to belong and the bliss of feeling like somehow, somewhere, there will always be someone waiting for you in the end. Was this Heaven? Or did I go to Hell?

When I went to bed that night, I dreamt of hugging her one last time. She was smiling.