The summer that raspberry tea cooled down with ice cubes
filled with dried flowers was in and lemonade was out,
my brother the atheist fell in love with a believer.
They met at a bar through a mutual friend, and he
fed her recycled pickup lines until she laughed and
took him home with her. Over the next few months
they did everything together: went bird-watching,
tried to learn the language of whales, ate out at
fancy dinners where they felt alone and underdressed.
But my brother told me that she could never understand
how he didn’t believe in God or at least something higher,
how he never wanted to go to church with her
or even get down on his knees for something other
than looking for lost change. It was only a year later,
after he left her and moved to Alaska with only
two cable-knit sweaters and a box of her letters,
that she finally understood that religion is not always
about crosses or holy water or Communion,
that faith can be placed in something other than God.
And for my brother, that faith was in love.