Walking down center st.

I've walked on both sides of Center Street. I grew up tiptoeing under hanging feather lights and signs of Marilyn Monroe, walking past strangers, talking with returned missionaries and dolled-up soccer moms. Now I order dirty chai, letting boys with beanies and septum piercings dictate my day instead of God. As I stare out the window past the glass, I notice the reflection, the contrast of two lives I’ve lived. I see people walk under a painted white tea cup steaming words that spell out “Peace on Earth.” Traffic lights reflect on trees while cappuccino and macchiato hang from the leaves. Here, Baristas walk on wet sidewalks, letting Sparrows slurp on flat vanilla whites. Another swig from a drink named after a dead musician, and I start tapping my toes—stomping on breadcrumbs of walnuts and Rocky Mountain ash, tiptoeing into another life reflected on the glass. A pair of young familiar eyes reflect in mine as I remember where I’m from. The home of many saved souls that couldn’t fit mine. A girl with flower tattoos picks up a bin of dirty dishes off the temple steps. I look around me in this dim cafe and see people like me, sipping from some sort of straw that's not plastic, gulping down their sins, and yet sometimes they pray. An angel with a horn blows out another order behind me. I’m a shadow on the bright side of Center Street, the place I’m from. But as I plucked the cappuccino off the tree and started to actually enjoy the smell, I realized coffee makes more sense to me than prophecy. I’m a pretender on temple grounds. So, I walk across the street to where they compliment the ink on my arms and the metal stuck in my ear. I’ve lived on both sides of Center Street, and both sides reflect in me. These days, I sip more java than the words of Jehovah, and the temple still stands out the window I stare from. My story is told here, it’s seen walking down Center Street, it says that growing up with God doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy an iced vanilla latte.