Shortlisted in Ad Hoc Fiction
She swayed from left to right buttock; not easy to achieve in slow motion and a silk skirt. Head locked forwards, she kept a sideways eye on the congregation for cues. Time had muddled her memories of the moves: a jumbled sequence of sit, kneel, stand. Her lips moved to Our Father. The drone of synchronised praying distracted her from images of her father turning in his coffin; placing his cold back to her, as she had to him for so long. A familiar guilt weighed down on her shoulders and settled in her guts. Not belonging, not believing. To mesh with her family’s faith would bring bittersweet relief. But it was too late for that.