Missionary

A poem and audio performance about the Jehovah's Witness in the doorway

Photo by Filip Kominik on Unsplash

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Missionary

One Thursday night during a college break, I ended up
at Red's Hamburgers with two high school friends.

While standing in one line, I saw a familiar redhead
standing in another line with her friends. I couldn’t

place how I knew her. And then I remembered she was
the Jehovah’s Witness who regularly visited to testify

at my college apartment. I’d always been a little bit
in love with her. In our separate lines at Red's, I saw her

recognize me but we didn't approach each other. 
I laughed at myself. I told my friends nothing. 

A few weeks later, she knocked on my apartment door.
She handed me the latest Witness literature and said, 

“I saw you at Red's but I was too shy to say hi. 
I didn’t think you’d want to explain to your friends

how you knew me.” And, God, I was too bashful
in that moment to confess that I’d been too bashful

to speak to her without a religious subtext. But,
standing close in my doorway, her scent was savior

and roses. There seemed to be a moment of frission
between us. Maybe her faith felt naked to me.

Maybe I was her favorite heathen. She was a foot
shorter than me. To kiss, both of us would've needed

to cross an epic distance. All these decades later,
I wonder if I truly missed a chance to kiss her. 

Imagine that! A reservation boy smooching the white
missionary in his doorway! In any case, I never

saw her again. Perhaps she'd fallen a little bit in love
with me but knew that I would never convert.

She knew that we'd never say the same prayers
or sing the same hymns. We'd never worship

the same God and she'd never leave the church.
Of course, none of this might be true. Maybe

I was just the guy who didn't shut the door
in her face. Maybe I was just the polite stranger

who paid attention as she proselytized.
But I still hope that I was more than a weekly

chore for her. I hope I was adored. I hope
that she missed me for a while after we parted.

I know that passion is unpredictable but I never
would've guessed that I'd feel so nostalgic 

about something that didn't happen—about
a love that was never more than theoretical.