MARGOT WIZANSKY
Fred Wants to Know if I Believe in God At lunch in Cambridge, England, he asks me unironically. A hush falls over our table—no context here for such a question. I could say yes, I do believe in a God I don’t comprehend, a wisp, or maybe a force stronger than anything, far from me, outside the cosmos. I can’t see what it is, not a him or her, no robes, no arms, no legs. I could say no to Fred, I don’t believe in your God. He’s too small, too human. And how could you still believe anyway, Fred, after he took your daughter, gave her a stupid infection from a fall in the road? I look out of my eye sockets, and I feel a power near me or in me. It grabs me when consciousness leaks out of me, grabs me, and shakes me alive.
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