Fall From Grace

Though Mother told me to stay in the yard it seems I must disobey her. Not without some thought given to the brown belt that lives in a kitchen drawer. But not even the flashing image of that stinging doubled strap could halt me. The fearful impression fades as quickly as the red stripes after a spanking.

But the forbidden fruit is clearly seen--no fleeting mental image here. I strain at the outer boundaries of my yard-garden of Eden. No serpent is required to tempt me; a vacant lot treehouse will do. I see its’ long, glorious ladder rising to hidden wonder amongst the branches.

Oh, thou treehouse of the knowledge of good and evil. Let me partake of your delights. I hurry to sin on chubby, pre-school legs. Do I hear unknown tongues calling me, to experience, to ascend, to explore that upper room, the habitation of those beings of light, the older boys, the god-kids?

The handmade ladder shivers as a living creature with my first pulls upward. The room in view, I move closer, stretching for the last rung. But I am betrayed; I fall from grace, through rotting wood and popping nails to the dirt and weeds below. With ripped clothes, scraped knees, and blood, I am humbled.

Blood? A quivering red ribbon decorates my small forearm, trickling from a strange, jagged mouth torn open by the ladder's iron claws. My thoughts turn to home and to the kitchen drawer. Silently, tearlessly, meditatively, I stroll homeward, holding up the evidence of my sin. Will the blood cover my transgression like a wet red fig leaf? Will it save me from those red belt marks? I long to sleep, to escape the suspense and pain.

Mother strides toward me with a towel, drying her soapy hands. Her face and walk reveal scolding premeditations. But as her eyes light on my arm and widen, I catch a glimpse of her shock before sinking into a dizzy realm of swirling sidewalk. I awaken after a blur of reddened towels and car door slams, alcohol smells and sewn flesh. My arm is covered with bandages.

But in time I find the divine belt left its mark without leaving the drawer. It fell silently to make an everlasting line on my arm. The pink crescent moon scar still remains as a reminder of original sin.

It ever grows and stretches with me.