The Wrong Beliefs

When I was a little girl,

I thought god was a ten-year-old boy,

And the universe lived

In a fish tank in his bedroom.

I pictured him watching the planets,

Yellowish white orbs spinning in the black,

With a protective and fatherly gaze.

And late at night when I tried to follow

The tap dance of the twinkling silvers specks

Across the muted bluish black background

Of my bathroom window,

I was certain that,

If I stared hard enough,

I could see heaven somewhere beyond.

When I reached age ten-

The age of my imagined god-

My belief evaporated

So slowly that I never realized what was happening.

But one night,

I looked at my bathroom window

And saw only the cracked glass and crumbling paint.

Years later, as I try to find the heaven I once saw

In a simple bathroom window,

I wonder:

If I had believed in a normal god

(Shapeless, all-powerful, fearful)

And a normal heaven

(Blinding white, pillow-like clouds, feathery angels’ wings),

Would I still believe?