I don’t know if the consecrated hall iscrowded with conifer smokeor if the Vaseline I put on this morning has smudgedthe tops of my glasses’ thicklenses enough to produce a milky smog veilover the heads of the congregation.I look to my left into the eyes of a small boywho has stopped beside this pewin line for his communion. I’d bet he thinks it’s realwine. His navy tartan shirt is taintedwith Cheeto dust and god knows what else.He smells like Irish Spring and lots of it.I offer him an agnostic smile. My skirt rode upwhen I sat down, the oak bench coldon my bare ass. I wait for the boyto pass to adjust.Clasped hands breeze by to the back of the churchtheir owners stillchewing the body, red and bulgingknuckles bred from decades old wedding bandsconstricting still like hog feet tied together.I hear the new generation of Catholics cryingwith colic in awe of the choir. My niecewith her new hair and fuzzy limbshas a wardrobe change at the end of the mass,her bowed white shoes that will never touchthe floors are waitingatop the cracked vinylof the kneeler and the pocket hanky bonnetis ready to be tied.

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