So this is strange.
I don’t believe in god, God, or gods. In fact, I felt like I could barely type the word. It feels alien. Foreign. Fake.
What’s strange, you may be wondering. Well, when I was a young child my mom took me to God’s apartment, we spent the afternoon there, and he made me a sandwich.
That’s remarkable, I know. And I also know the next question you want to ask me: What kind of sandwich was it? Sorry, I don’t remember. I wish I knew. I remember that it was good, though.
Anyway, what makes me think I met god? Well, it was the strangest thing. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a movie. That much I know for sure. I remember certain details. Like, it was an apartment, not a house. I had a sense that we walked into it from the street but that, somehow, it was actually really high up in the sky. Though, I don’t remember looking on a window. And, my mom was sad and I had the sense that she was seeking counsel.
At some point, we were sitting on a couch. My mom and God got to talking. Adult talk. I have no idea what it is about. I was a kid. After a few minutes I slowly slipped off the sofa and slithered down the hallway. At the time, I was pretty sure they had no idea that I left. Thinking back to that now, I realize there was no way I escaped without them seeing me. I mean, I was sitting right next to them. What the fuck? Kids are weird.
Anyway, they seemed engrossed in their big people talk so I went away. At the end of the hallway was a bedroom. God’s bedroom, I reckoned. I went in there and sat on his bed. I recall looking around the room. There was a bookshelf, some pictures on the wall, and a vase with some flowers.
You may still be wondering why I thought this was god’s apartment. So I am. What’s the most surprising is that I don’t believe in such things. Ultimately, I don’t know why. I’d ask my mom, but she’s gone. And no one else was there.