On the way to the village store I drive through a down-draft from the neighbor’s chimney. Woodsmoke tumbles from the eaves backlit by sun, reminding me of the fire and sulfur of Grandmother’s vengeful God, the one who disapproves of jeans and shorts for girls, dancing, strong waters, and adultery.
A moment later the smoke enters the car, although the windows are tight, insinuating that I might, like Judas, and the foolish virgins, and the rich young man, have been made for unquenchable fire. God will need something to burn if the fire is to be unquenchable.
“All things work together for the good for those who love God,” she said to comfort me at Uncle Hazen’s funeral, where Father held me up to see the maroon gladiolus that trembled as we approached the bier, the elaborate shirred satin, brass fittings, anything,
oh, anything but Uncle’s squelched and made-up face. “No! NO! How is it good to be dead?” I cried afterward, wild-eyed and flushed. “God’s ways are not our ways,” she said then out of pity and the wish to forestall the argument.
Jane Kenyon, “The Argument” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 2005 by the Estate of Jane Kenyon. Reprinted with the permission of Graywolf Press, St. Paul, Minnesota, www.graywolfpress.org.
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