Church I grew up in

Take a left and there it is, the church I spent a majority of my life in. A small, white, old building that is hardly a respectable place to worship. The mold in the basement is so bad now it has to be shut off from the upstairs. No one dares go down there. The front doors open and there is the foyer with bathrooms on both sides and a coat rack straight to your right. The pulpit stares you in the face. How fitting.
Walking in I see a lot of family members. Grandma says “Oh I haven’t seen you in a while”. And it least five people tell me how great it is to see me. Like their keeping track. The balcony holds twenty people but that only happened on Christmas. The stairs creek as I head up and I feel as if the floor might cave in as I sit. I hear bats squeaking in the ceiling and someone dares to say that their mating.
When I was younger church was fun. I would play tag with my friends. The children’s stories were fun and pot luck dinners were my favorite. Behind the church was a playground with a slide so big it took me years to go down. There were always new things to try and new people but as the years went on the new faces began to diminish. Their “ideals” made less sense. I kept smiling but I didn’t know why. I don’t go there anymore.