I don’t remember the day of my baptism.
I don’t remember much of my childhood–
not in the usual way, that you just forget
as the years and days get scattered behind
you like breadcrumbs leading to the present.
No, I remember my childhood as a form full of blanks
that were never filled in–one day passed over
to lead to another.
So I don’t remember being dipped underneath the
water, white-robed, little girl, nose held,
immersed for half a second in the chaos of death
before being pulled back into light and life.
Somebody once told me that the correct answer
to the question “when did you get saved?”
is “2000 years ago in Jerusalem”
or “before the creation of the world happened.”
I don’t remember.
But I don’t really need to.