Burning My Birth Certificate, and: Afraid to Pray

Abstract

Burning My Birth Certificate, and: Afraid to Pray Pamela Sutton (bio) Burning My Birth Certificate Her bones are buried deep in the gardennear her favorite window where she watchedthe birds and the black-red winter roses. I am burningmy birth certificate. I am pouring the ashesover her grave. Last April I carried her body homethrough green-black rain—wet knucklespunching my face and shoulders,but she had to be buried, and it was only me. The earth was still thawing, the storm was a boxerwho outweighed me, overmuscled me and myshovel and boots. I still can’t stand to wearthe boots—clay stuck to their soles. They are good boots, the best, and the shovelwell made. They were bought to plant tulipsnot dig a grave, and never to dig one for her. Placing her body in that eye socket of earthwas like handing over my heart—onlybone now, and a bit of hair. I stareout of Pearl’s favorite window and see all the lost animals all over this war-pockedskull of a planet. I see all [End Page 99] the children’s dead pets; the bombsplanted over and overin houses like mine. I seemy child’s dead pet. I seelost horses trotting and dying and rotting;dogs forming packs; and the children who loved them. Afraid to Pray Dear God I’m afraid if I pray for my daughter’s safety you’ll blithelyallow her to get raped or abducted or crash on a highwayon a perfect summer day. Forget I mentioned my daughter. What daughter? I remember how Anne Frank believed in the goodness of mankind.I wonder how she felt the moment her diary was knocked from her handsbecause that’s how I’m feeling these days: like Job with post-traumatic stress disorder. Don’t worry, God, I know you exist; but, I’m having someserious trust issues. Maybe it began with that nightmare about mymother shoving my grandmother into a swift-running river. I jumped in to save her, and I saved her all right, but O the branchesand Kentucky mud stuck in our hair and mouths—the disbeliefin her eyes—and me having to tell her the truth. Dear God if you made us in your likeness because you werelonely then uh-oh. I’m so tired of Nazis marching to the rhythm of my prayers.I prayed that the love of my life would survive his cancer then he died on my birthday. And for thirty years I prayed my ex-husband would survive his insanity, but hefinally blew his brains out. I know there’s a heaven becauseI walked along a tightrope of Atlantic foam after Joel died and [End Page 100] a rainbow lassoed the sun. The sky was timorous and thinas an ear drum and I knew if I pushed with all of my ragethat the sky would burst and we would touch hands one last time. I’m so tired of praying and getting punched in the gut. I prayed thatmy parents would not sell my sister’s black Morgan horse with the staron its forehead, but they sold it all right and now she’s afraid to love her own children. I prayed that my parents would not sell the hand-built log cabin on the Indianreservation, but when they knew they could die without selling it, they sold itall right and the new owners bulldozed it down along with everything in it including a Bible my mother had placed just so. And they chopped down the forestand threw my canoe in a dumpster. Now all I do is scour real estate ads for log cabinson the Indian reservation. I’ve found a few places but they’re just not the same. Still, I’d like to move back to the northwoods and live in a cabin and pray to the lakeand the woods and the wolves. Like God the wolves would not answer my prayers,but unlike God, by...