Us Parochials

I’d put on the gray drab uniform, catch the yellow bus, while other villagers made a pilgrimage to Violet Avenue Elementary School, and us parochials would be driven to the now closed St. Peters. This is where I first knelt, steepled hands, had a sense of the transcendent, always a good Catholic girl. I did not know otherwise. I knew habits that, at least for some, were untouchable. They probably were initially the knuckle smackers but apparently someone cracked their knuckles and said - no more of that. Saddle shoes and lacy socks and such. We’d often be in chapel in meditation, learning the Lord’s Prayer. Thankful. I’d not thought of it before but Drugen was also on our beat. He’d threatened my brother like a bully Catholic thug. Over what, I have no idea. Did I think it cool, that when we all landed on the village playground, that a fight was pursued? Did I think that my brother would be tough? The former tough broke my brother’s arm and I’d try to chase him; mad was I, at both myself and this bully guy. In that dull, gray, pleated jumper, lessons are memorized, Jesus before our eyes. Don’t we all feel pitiable in His light? That’s the exclamation point! No sense going round and round, but we do nonetheless. Still pocket knees underneath, steeple hands fold, raised, praising the one who has pity, saves - me from sin, from myself; wipes tears, fears, and embarrassments away. Lights up - Christmas days and Easter morns. I adore Christ.