I used to think God couldn’t see through blankets.
I hid under my covers much like the foolish child
might hide from the bogey man or a murderer.
The folds of the fabric protecting me from His
I used to think a black widow was a type of witch.
The type that waited in the shadows with crooked
noses and hands ready to snatch me unsuspecting.
And I though that what dad said was law.
Sometimes, I still catch myself believing that.
I know that strangers are still strangers
even if you know each other’s name.
I understand how impermanence works,
the mechanics of loss
I no longer hide under my covers from the eyes of