When the rain fell, it was a religious day. Kids were in their Sunday clothes. I don’t remember seeing her. We were mired by scars. She said my eyes were filled with adulthood. Years would pass. There’s an indoctrination around Sundays. I dare not assert it, but we see Sunday as the sabbath. A major controversy. However, Easter came and went: dyed eggs, too much candy, rooms filled with confetti. Early morning listening to Gospel, rushing to finish homework, compelled and feeling a certain type of participation. Adults in their Sunday best: hats, shawls, heels, ankle high dresses, men in suits, neatly shaven. Kids ruining their garments. Mothers swearing. And years pass; sameness of activity, suffused by Sunday—charm-keeper of holiness—reason to take inventory—listening to the day’s message. Community at communion. A particular insistence. Hot in such garments. Fanning faces. Sweating. Jumping. Dancing. So much into the gifts. Church time. Then back to the condition. Years pass by, fumbling through life, affirmed in the winds. Participants. Nothing less. Kids still excited. As to partake of holiness: asking questions, quite profound questions, mother noticing. Father looking. The two nod in agreement. Such vocalization in church: “Amen, God knew!” Kids mimic: “Feel the fire, Alleluia!” After service, souls are filled, eyes are rinsed, life is rekindled.
