P U N CH P R O S E 73
YESTERDAY WAS SUNDAY Jake Dunn
The church sits up on a hill. Above the oak trees, the steeple pokes holes in clouds that drift too low and reminds passersby with short-term memories where it can be found next Sunday. Beneath the steeple, the bricks climb to peer into the cross-shaped panes of glass pressed between the peeling white paint of the double doors. Through the cross shaped prisms of glass can be seen the clean floor of the vestibule, the lacquer worn away by the back and forth of broom bristles and the shuffle of Sunday shoes hurrying in and out. Through the next set of doors that sway between the draft of the outside and the still of the sanctuary are the oak pews, as comfortable as a hand hewn crucifix, neatly ordered, and all facing the vacant pulpit. Inside is a hollowed hush; the only sound—the sharp ringing of light as it echoes through the tall ceilinged room. Pouring in from the stained glass stories, the red and yellow and green and blue spears of light spill out on the carpet—red and outdated, but still hiding the grape juice stains and the dirt tracked in on the soles of dirty shoes. And in the last row, closest to the door, there is a Werther’s wrapper stuffed into the pew cushion, an empty offering envelope, and a Bible someone forgot. Sprawled across the envelope are questions about what was for lunch after yesterday’s service.