I eyed the confessionals. I thought the priest might be so repressed that he needed to repress others to validate his own repression. Then I thought I could be totally wrong. The cape he wore was creamy and golden. His outfit is pretty, I whispered to Mom, watching the gown move behind him and catch light as he walked to the altar. Mom wanted me to take Communion. I said no, but I followed her to the altar. I laughed to myself, a relapse from Communion wine in a chalice before God. When it was my turn, I crossed my arms over my chest and someone in white gloves blessed me.
