It’s hard to describe the smell, the fellowship hall the night of a supper. Kentucky Fried Chicken dots the table, weaved all over with congealed salads and casseroles with crushed Ritz crackers on top. I’m nine, and I pretend to go to the bathroom so I can sneak up there during service, figure which side of the table I want to run for when the closing prayer says amen.

This is church, the only place I’ve explored anything away from home, where the town women come southernly dressed, always tinkling with charms and pressed with fresh powder. This is the place I want to be loved.

…continue reading at Deeper Story.