APPROPRIATE ATTIRE by Angela Townsend

I wish the line between sacred and profane was not blinding. It isn’t, but my eyes take in only a splinter of light’s spectrum.

When you party with words, you learn to observe their dress code. “Saints” and “angels” are vague enough for hosts of hosts. They may wear cargo shorts or top hats. “Hope” is invited to most parties, handsome in sweat shorts or pearls. But the “Holy Spirit” does not own heels or attend awards ceremonies. “Psalms” are business-casual, underdressed for galas, expected early to help with potlucks.

Given a slobbering love of God and a kitten-heeled craving for affirmation, you find yourself a perennial faux pas. I have blown my liturgical cover with literary journals, the equivalent of wearing holey overalls to Buckingham Palace. I have waxed too wonderstruck with the astute and academic, my tutu turning off the professional pantsuits.

My wardrobe is just as wrong for the worship service. I foam at the mouth with rage or comedy, and devotionals in denim dresses cover up their daily bread. I mess up my hair with metaphors, and the combed and confident shutter the cathedral.

I am infatuated with Jesus and grateful for the F-word. I am devoted and divorced. I sing hymns all day and believe nobody will be left outside over the long night. I am Mary and Jezebel, 99th sheep and feral cat, organ and kazoo, disciple and moon child.

I am alive and confused and incapable of writing any of this out of the plot.

Squinting from infrared to ultraviolet, I try to write the whole arc. But I am Eve’s daughter, with a sweet tooth for low-hanging fruit. I cram my convictions down my blouse at the agnostic cocktail party. I turn my “Everyone Belongs” T-shirt inside-out at the Baptist barbeque. I tell myself I’m wry and graceful, telling it slant like Emily Dickinson with a bigger ego, but I’m just a calico coward under God’s fig tree.

Who will save me from this body of work? There’s no stylist seraph at my door, reporting to make me over. There’s no wordplay to wiggle into, no matter how often I sausage my soul into a dress three sizes small.

There’s only one option appropriate for all events. The events themselves.

There are moments of such infallible joy, God-words are redundant. I’m happy as a gumdrop to gather them like pleats, but the dress will twirl with or without details.

At six, I ate vanilla pudding while watching Schoolhouse Rock reruns. I was the woman who found fire. Sweetness existed, and creativity, and the hoe-down of language and laughter. I remember this hour as though it were the world’s first hour.

At fourteen, my father angered me for any or no reason. But it was the Summer Olympics, and he squeezed increasingly hilarious handwritten notes under my bedroom door until I resurrected. I was every small animal who ever came home. I remember this hour as though it were my father’s face.

At twenty-eight, my coworker made a comment about narwhals. Our boss summoned a music video on the same topic. Our collective hundred fifty years of age rewound to Eden as we leapt and danced, slaphappy and free. I was a guest at Cana. I remember this hour as though it were permission.

At forty, I Zoom with my mother on mundane mornings wearing discount dungarees. We bicker about democracy and examine the flight paths of angels and compliment each other’s tie-dyed hoodies. I am every vandal who has ever been unable to lose love. I remember these hours as though they are my name.

At the edge of darkness, I catch myself burbling hymns. I realize I am not alone in my galley kitchen. A great company is grooving in their own pajamas, ancestors and oddballs and my lost cats. I am the six-winged seraph, covered in eyes. I remember this hour as though it were vision.

At the horizon, I am naked. I have no answer. I have no question. I have no reason to be afraid. I am Mary Magdalene hearing my name in the garden. I forget this hour most of the time.

If I attend to events, I will be dressed appropriately. Editors may disagree. I may curdle, craven. I may light strange fire or snuff the light. The sacred and profane will not cancel the party on my account. They will top each other’s guest list. They will doff their top hats to haggard heretics in jumpsuits and flinty saints in silk. They will keep the light on, especially when we squint.

Angela Townsend is Development Director at Tabby’s Place: a Cat Sanctuary. She has an M.Div. from Princeton Theological Seminary and B.A. from Vassar College. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Amethyst Review, Braided Way, Cagibi, Fathom Magazine, and Young Ravens Literary Review, among others. Angie loves life dearly.