Photo by Julia Kadel
Stockings on Sunday
Nicole Servino
I pull at the waistline in the bathroom, trying to encourage the crotch of my tights to lay against my body
instead of inching further towards my knees.God gets mad if little girls don’t wear stockings on Sunday.If little
boys’ pants aren’t ironed on Sunday, God is disappointed.I smooth the folds on my skirt down and tug at the
sides to keep it from riding up.Women need to wear their best dress on Sunday or God will be angry.If fathers are
sitting in the pew Sunday morning in a wrinkled button down shirt, God hates that.So grandmas make sure
everyone is right with God.But they don’t suck their teeth when lovers are slaughtered if they are both boys.God
doesn’t tsk tsk when babies cry from empty bottles and bellies.And neither do those who say they love Him.I try
not to think about the blood and the hands that cause it, the misery and the apathy towards it, the neglect and
the ignoring instead of screaming.No one sighs with regret when dollars go to Boards of Directors instead of to
the mortgage.There is no sign of disgust from God or grandmas when hospitals are attacked from the sky.There is
only ire when the little girl’s pink dress shows a stain from last Sunday’s lunch, not last Sunday’s bombs.I sing the
hymn a little louder, trying not to be pissed at the God who doesn’t seem to care about
anything but fashion.
Nicole Servino
I pull at the waistline in the bathroom, trying to encourage the crotch of my tights to lay against my body
instead of inching further towards my knees.God gets mad if little girls don’t wear stockings on Sunday.If little
boys’ pants aren’t ironed on Sunday, God is disappointed.I smooth the folds on my skirt down and tug at the
sides to keep it from riding up.Women need to wear their best dress on Sunday or God will be angry.If fathers are
sitting in the pew Sunday morning in a wrinkled button down shirt, God hates that.So grandmas make sure
everyone is right with God.But they don’t suck their teeth when lovers are slaughtered if they are both boys.God
doesn’t tsk tsk when babies cry from empty bottles and bellies.And neither do those who say they love Him.I try
not to think about the blood and the hands that cause it, the misery and the apathy towards it, the neglect and
the ignoring instead of screaming.No one sighs with regret when dollars go to Boards of Directors instead of to
the mortgage.There is no sign of disgust from God or grandmas when hospitals are attacked from the sky.There is
only ire when the little girl’s pink dress shows a stain from last Sunday’s lunch, not last Sunday’s bombs.I sing the
hymn a little louder, trying not to be pissed at the God who doesn’t seem to care about
anything but fashion.