GOD, OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT
Sarah Fawn Montgomery
What did you see on that shaggy hill with the stone T—T for our town, for his name—after you left me to watch her stranded on her knees at my feet, roles reversed, this woman you hoped would save my soul, her hands clasped over, under, out, fingers a twisted cross for luck, or hope, or mangled faith; after she found T's car, T's note, called T-town police to search for him; after you, so quiet always, stepped up to help like when your church calls out for a real loud Hallelujah; after you knew right where he was—God speaks, you told me later, I can't say what he wants, but I feel what is and isn't right; after you left me staring up at that hill, the setting sun haloing your retreating figure striding to the top, rays holding your form like I held her hand, received its tremor as you pushed through trees, tall grass, trash and fire ash, cans to find the man, T for teacher, your preacher, hanging by a noose, the loop a complete circle, a concentric realization for you that I might not find God or something like that fast enough and maybe you couldn't touch me, trust me, simply love me anymore?
Someone once said of a paragraph of prose, "That's not an essay," and four others agreed. So I wrote a one sentence, one question essay.