The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Certain Shelter by Abbie Kiefer

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Given

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power,
and of love, and of a sound mind.
                                                                           — 2 Timothy 1:7

We will die, each one. I preach this so the truth can’t catch us
by surprise. I make it a liturgy: One day we will die. And all
my people: We hear you, always hear you. I insist it to my dad
who knows truth the same way I do. Still, he bristles. Testifies
to good health, prophesies long years. Everyone will die. Each

time I say it, prepaying on sorrow. I make it a hymn. Sing it
while swimming. Over lunch. When a retriever pads past, golden
bleached from his muzzle. I lead a chorus as my dad turns over
the new old Camaro he keeps on my mom’s side of the garage.

He drives to a lawyer. Signs papers that say I will manage
the accounts if his sound mind slips. His lawyer calls it
a kindness, letting everything be settled. Now we know what

will happen. Though I keep preaching, in love. Sure as St. Paul
and surely as zealous. Professing: Death, I never thought

you weren’t coming.

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