When the Canopy Parts

One of my earliest memories is of demon possession at the river.

After the tent revival, light broke through the canopy as the pastor raised his hand. Then she began to spasm, clawing at those around her, eyebrows drawn low over wild eyes.

Her shrieks scattered the birds.

Years later, when they said my sibling was possessed, I scoffed. I was an atheist by then. But I never stopped believing in that day at the river.

Now we invite different possessions: the state, our masks, our work, our becoming.