By Pamela Murray Winters

From Fall 2017

 After we got our VIP wristbands, they led us through
 to meet Jesus. The green room was smaller
 than we expected. He had changed from his robes
 into a chambray shirt and Dockers, His feet
 modestly clad in white socks and Tevas.
 He still had that aura, though. The scent of cloves
 and mown grass. I got snookered into taking
 camera after camera to shoot souvenirs. The old
 grip-and-grin. It seemed polite to ask for a photo
 of my own. His embrace was warm, brotherly, 
 only a bit damp, and I felt supreme love and deep 
 foolishness in equal portions. My companions yelled
 Say Christmas! I murmured I feel stupid. 
 The Lord said Everyone feels stupid. It’s OK.