A Friend Has Good News
for You,
says the broken signboard outside the Calvary United Methodist Church. The sort
of steepled, boxy church you might expect to see in New England. But not like
this, with a pine tree sprawled across its crumbled steps, tinged grey from
drifting ash.
There’s a path leading
up to it, a winding trail through the woods. Maybe it was a hikers’ church
once, a place to sit and rest after a long climb.
Climate Refugees Welcome, says a sign above the
door. A long banner, printed by hand. It makes me think of the news, back when
there still was news, a constant crawl of panic. It was a relief when all the
satellites went down, and nothing worked.
The church smells empty,
like a coat closet in a closed school. And there are coats, laid out on the
back rows of pews. Hooded parkas, anoraks, raincoats, child-sized coats with
hoods like animal faces: pandas, sloths, foxes.
The front rows have
boxes of granola bars, Pop-Tarts, jerky, but most of them are empty. There’s a
clear plastic box labeled DONATIONS, filled with coins and dollar bills. No
one’s taken the money.
But who would take money
now? It’s the last thing anybody needs.
In the end I take
nothing. I sleep inside for the first time in months and find myself missing
the moon, the stars, all my planetary guides. But I’m warm and dry, and I’m
grateful for that.
In the morning I’m back
on my way to you.
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