As I prepare to enter the icy river, my mind wanders to that slice of meat lovers I’ve left behind. I’m regretting my restraint. Not eating all of my “last supper” now seems like an unnecessary sacrifice. What’s the point of being born again if you don’t go out with a gulp? The first time I joined Grandma at a church bake sale, I should have known they were laying a trap. Hiding their hooks inside baked goods. Baiting me with their banana breads and snickerdoodles.
It’s November and the dusting of snow looks like someone’s sprinkled powdered sugar to mark my path. The congregation waits by the water’s edge in puffy parkas and fur lined hoods. Their eager eyes gleam and I imagine them licking their lips while hiding their fangs. I hang back in my Jams and oversized Hanes undershirt, refusing to make a spectacle of my ripe flesh. Still, I am but the fatted calf, thighs chafing, shuffling forward to either my salvation or my sacrifice. The preacher and his two sons await waist-deep.
Pastor Joel and his thin sons are solemn men, with long hair and sculpted beards. It occurs to me they’re mimicking Jesus with their scrawny builds. I’ve never seen any fat Jesuses. Someone really ought to paint one. Like my mama always said before she passed, who doesn’t want more of a good thing? As I wade into the water, the sons step forward to spin me around. Once again, I face the congregation. Their thoughts are written across their pallid faces. They aim to shrink me. To erase me. I’m the beached whale they’ve victoriously rolled back to sea. The glutton they’ll soon reform.
The preacher aggressively dunks my head and the shock of water stings. I’m reminded of the prickling pain that arrived each time Grandma slapped me for picking before dinner. Gram’s too frail to bear witness now. The doctor says she needs to eat more. As I’m submerged, I consider the irony. I pray for the Body of Christ to fill me, so I no longer require the body of Stouffer’s. And yet, is my size really such a sin?
The preacher strains to pull me up. His two sons join in and it takes all three of them to wrestle me back to my feet. There’s a smattering of applause. A few feigned “Hallelujahs.” Only I don’t feel different—just wet. I’m starving and I realize I’ll never be satiated. This congregation is no different. We all hunger in different ways. I’m a juicy soul ripe for the plucking—another notch in the clergy’s narrow belts. But I still need to nourish my spirit. And there’ll be no more starving to conform. A delicious celebratory meal waits for us back in the parish hall, and I can already taste the chicken.
Coleman Bigelow is a Pushcart Prize and Best MicroFiction nominated author whose work has appeared recently in Bending Genres, Cosmic Daffodil, Emerge Journal, and Jake. Find more at colemanbigelow.com, or follow him on Twitter and Instagram.
Image: brooklynsbestpizza.net
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Heavy Feather Review 