In his gold robes, Father bends toward me with a gold chalice. He says what I cannot understand, and places the wafer on my tongue. I hold it sacred, keep it away from my teeth, as instructed. I mull the bland disc around my cheeks; trace with the tip of my tongue the mold’s impression, but can’t discern the form. I muse that the holy bread was baked by the school nuns. When it softens, I swallow, and learn to digest religion. I later learn many persevere in their devotion, and that they hope to have one final taste.
“I write to find out what I know, and to make sense of memory.” – the author