Every Sunday my post-church treat
Is a jumbo dill pickle from Wally’s Superette
I can hear them calling to me
Floating in their wooden barrel near the register
Scores of those addictive salt and vinegary shrunken cucumbers
Waiting for the cover to be lifted so they can see the light
My mouth waters for one even before the fat lady sings the doxology
Listening to little of what transpires during that dreary hour
I envision myself transported a hour forward
Imagine skipping through the doorway to the sacred vault
That seems to soar to the sky like a steeple visible from the moon
Finally settled on the sofa at home for my snack
I suck out the inside of each tiny bite before my teeth break the skin
Revel in the sourness curling my lips and burning my throat
The trick being to make the pickle last forever
Once I convinced my mom to buy me two
She warned me I might get sick
And she was right
I’m not sure when that Sunday ritual ended
Perhaps because of my throwing up those two pickles
It’s a mystery to me but must have been abrupt
Like the drop of a guillotine blade
From then on I must have cried as I sat in the pew
Knowing I would have to steel myself for soldiering through
The entire service with no hope of resurrecting the dill pickle ritual
Settling for only eating the body and drinking the blood of Christ
To sustain me until lunch time
Lanning Lee 