I don’t know what’s going on over there in that church and I certainly don’t know what’s going on over there in that apartment. The newspaper says she was walking around at that power plant naked, trailing my grandbabies behind her and calling up to the sky for forgiveness. The girls were naked, too.
She’s just had bad luck. All her life, bad luck. Bad luck before she was even born. But I don’t blame myself and I surely don’t blame her. She isn’t bad. Maybe I do blame that preacher. Maybe I do blame that girl who brung her to that church the first time; spent just as many hours in that place praying and singing and waving her hands in the air but she didn’t have the kinds of troubles my daughter had and she should have known troubles like that are not helped with prayers and songs and walking home with no shoes on your feet with your girls who are just 4 and just 11 following you and it was after midnight. That girl should have known. That girl should have gotten someone to drive my Greta and those babies home. That girl should have called me when Greta grabbed her children’s hands and pulled them out the door with her into the dark, into the cold.
I don’t know what Greta needs to be forgiven for; maybe for making those children take off all their clothes outside, maybe for making them follow her through that marshy grass, no shoes on their feet, on a night when mittens needed mittens. That girl should have noticed the coats left behind, and the shoes kicked off by the folding chair that Greta knocked over when she jumped up to praise Jesus. I don’t know what was in that girl’s mind. She was on the local news talking about how she knew Greta was taking comfort in the Lord. I don’t know why they even showed that nonsense on the television. And where are my grandbabies now?