“The Voice That Knows My Name”

 “The Voice That Knows My Name”

It called again. Not loud, not cruel, just certain. The way someone says a name they’ve said a thousand times before. I saw the street behind my eyelids — narrow, old, paved in ash. And at the end, that door. Always that door. Behind it, I think the church is still burning, and maybe I’m the one who never left.

by Cristina Davenport