Blame it on my mother.

She’s the one who named me

Mary Rudine.

The name is some throwback

her old-fashioned thinking

came up with.

Nobody but Mom

has called me Mary Rudine

since forever.

First it was Mary,

then it was M.R.

Mister is all anybody

calls me now.

My boyfriend used to think

it was cute,

a girl named Mister.

Used to think I was cute.

Used to be my boyfriend

what feels like

a million years ago.

Then again, I used to be

a good Christian girl,

the kind who would never, well…

Just goes to show

how little people know.

Even I was surprised by me.

Now, I close my eyes

hoping to see

exactly where I went wrong.

Was it that long ago?

I remember one morning

sitting in church,

keeping my eyes on Dante,

the cutest boy in the band.

Mom caught me.

“Quit eyeing that guitarist

like candy,” she whispered.

I laughed easy.

In those days,

Mom and me,

we could talk

about anything.

A second home,

as familiar as skin.

Crammed inside its walls

memories of

Sunday school,

all-church picnics,

and vacation Bible school

Sword drills.

My youth group meets there,

and choir, of course.

Even my old Girl Scout troop

once hung out

on holy ground,

meeting in

the church basement.

I could always

count on the deacons

to take dozens of cookies

off my hands.

I’m just saying,