Memory, Final Week

Fear Inventory

My greatest fear in third grade was hell. Not fitting in, a close second. When I said "God damn" on the bus, I said it because I was tagged as a sweet, quiet little girl, the bus driver's pet. But as soon as I uttered those two irretrievable syllables, I was seized by consequence. I thought it was blasphemy. The unforgivable sin. I felt the devil suck away my inheritance, my peace. I had crossed the line. Mom always said that cursing God was blasphemy. And the preacher always said blasphemy was unforgivable.

I couldn't ask my mom if I was going to hell now. It would break her heart to know that her little girl was doomed already. I couldn't ask the preacher because that's the same thing as outing myself. So I turned to my Bible concordance, collecting blasphemy references I didn't really understand. Sometimes I found relief, if I could tweak my perception enough. Cursing God, I learned is forgivable. Speaking against the Son, also forgivable. But blasphemy against the Holy Spirit is not forgivable "neither in this life nor in the life to come." I hadn't cursed the Holy Spirit, so I decided I was safe enough. But that took a bit of denial. I had to believe that God, Jesus, and the Spirit were three different beings, that sinning against one wasn't the same as sinning against all. I had always been told they were one. But I don't think "God damn" is blasphemy anymore anyway.

I might call hell tangible if I could see it. Now, though, it seems abstract like my fear of it. Rivers scare me too, and I see them all the time. Even though I know it won't happen, I imagine myself facing that fear, tracing the river from the bridge into the ominous unknown where there aren't any houses, only snakes and unharvested trees. The closest I've come was when I turned off my headlights while crossing the Tallapoosa river one night. It doesn't make sense, but I thought if I crossed the river in complete darkness that it wouldn't scare me anymore. I had a fudge brownie cake from the Dairy King in my hand at the time. It was all over my pants when I finally found the lights again.

The first time I remember being petrified by anything tangible, the nearest water source was the toilet near the playground at Folsom Elementary. Just beyond the door trapped between the tips of my black knee-high boots and a pair of tennis shoes belonging to Stephanie Foster stood the biggest, furriest brown spider I'd ever seen. I've not seen one bigger since. But I'm bigger now, so proportion might be to blame. I wasn't afraid at first. In fact, I was poised to stomp the life out of the beast when Stephanie shouted her wisdom. "My mama says spiders that big can bite you through the bottom of your shoe."