The Lord’s Prayer at 3AM on a Saturday - Mena Brazinski
The Lord’s Prayer at 3am on a Saturday sounds like I haven’t been to church in years,
Sounds like heels slapping on a wooden floor,
Sounds like bated breath and looking over my shoulder.
Lord, watch over my brothers tonight, at this party, in this life,
Forever and always,
Keep them close to me,
Keep them close to you and guide them as they navigate these circumstances and the night that follows it,
And the night after that, too.
Forgive me for imposing. For overstepping. For being so bold.
I worry about them a lot.
I know that that’s your job.
Forgive me for trying to look after them.
Forgive me for not doing it well enough.
As often.
Lord,
Watch over my friends
As they move through the world and the people in it,
As they move the world and the people in it,
As they become the world and the people in it.
And Lord, watch over me
Because I’m high and walking home alone and I’m 17,
And being high and walking home alone are two things you’re not supposed to do at 17
(Or ever)
The details are hazy
But doing things you’re not supposed to do is also part is being 17.
It’s exactly what you’re supposed to be doing at 17.
I know, I know
What you would say
What you are saying
Reckless.
Careless.
Wasteful.
You offer me my life, golden, stretched out before me, and I spit it back in your smiling face.
I thank you by risking it.
Forgive me for that, too.
I’m sorry the only reason I know the serenity prayer is because it was recited on Grey’s Anatomy.
I’m sorry I care more for sonnets than psalms.
I’m sorry the only prayers I know come from the year I lost a few family members.
God, do you remember it?
All the funerals?
Like dominoes, one after the other, hardly a breath or a month between.
I was young.
I know the poem on the back of all the calling cards,
I can recite it.
Even now.
And the one that begins “O Divine Master”
You know it
I like that one quite a bit, actually.
I know I don’t think of you as much as I probably should, but I pray every time I read Mary Oliver out loud or tell my father I love him.
Which I also do not do as much as I should.
Right, the worrying.
I’m sorry.
It is not my job.
I sign off prayers the way I do because of the way I loved someone at 13.
That feels religious to me.
Sacred.
Holy.
A sabbath all its own.
Lord, please bring them home safe.
Lord, I’m sorry for walking out of the church school basement.
Sorry for pretending to be proud of it.
For telling the story so many times.
And for lying.
And for taking to you like this
And by like this,
I mean high.
By like this,
I mean brazen.
I’m sorry for that too.
Lord, thank you.
For forced proximity and the shoes Mitra bought me,
The black ones that don’t hurt my feet,
The ones I can dance in for hours.
Thank you for the nights I’ve danced for hours.
No complaints, I promise.
I do hope the shaking ends soon, though.
I’m sorry for taking your name in vain.
For swearing and drinking.
For watching Fleabag betray you in your own house and rooting for her.
I’m sorry for apologizing so much.
Thank you for the people I’ve met, for the ones I’ve been lucky enough to keep with me.
Not that I’m in any position to make demands,
But if it’s not too much to ask,
If I don’t go to Hell for this,
I’d like them back unscathed.
No.
Whole.
They deserve to be more than barely unbroken.
Thank you, Lord.
Goodnight.