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The baby cries. The baby cries and because I am in church, I cannot do what I want, which is reach out with my right hand and flick the back of the mother’s neck. Worse, she has let a one inch section of hair fall from her bun. I’d like to give that a yank, but it’s church so I kneel.
I look at the cracked wood in the pew in front of me and listen to the reading and singing, singing and chanting, chanting and talking. Now it’s quiet. I sneeze and the cotton-haired woman in front of me leans forward as if my sneeze had sent a gust of germs sweeping toward her. I had covered my mouth.
After the homily, I will have to show a Sign of Peace to the people around me. I will not want to, because the man next to me smells like cold cuts. I worry that the cotton-haired woman will think it is me.
I look at the cracked wood in the pew in front of me and listen to the reading and singing, singing and chanting, chanting and talking. Now it’s quiet. I sneeze and the cotton-haired woman in front of me leans forward as if my sneeze had sent a gust of germs sweeping toward her. I had covered my mouth.
After the homily, I will have to show a Sign of Peace to the people around me. I will not want to, because the man next to me smells like cold cuts. I worry that the cotton-haired woman will think it is me.
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