Hey dear beaters, recently I've been working on a sort of autobiography that has a kind of 'Perks of Being a Wallflower' touch to it. This is more or less my writing style and I haven't included any storyline to it yet. Presently, I'm just working on the emotions and the touch of the experiences. These are just a few excerpts from what I've been working on. I really need to hear what some of you've got to say. Is this publishing quality, provided I include a storyline and polish it up a little? Do you like the writing style? Does it have enough potential? Would you want to read more of it? Many of my friends and even my aunt believe so but I would really like to hear what you beaters have got to say. Any helpful advice/comments/opinions would be very much appreciated.
Look Into My Grey Matter
15th June 2013
I liked the beach. I liked it during the night, when the wind was strongest and the sky was darkest. I liked standing just by the coast, my feet almost touching the water, but not really touching it. I liked how the soft and wet sand would get in between my toes and get washed away almost instantly by the current. I liked listening to the waves. I liked the repetition of it. I liked watching the waves move back and forth and how they looked like a million bubbles held together by an invisible thread unseen in the darkest of night. I liked how inconsistent the currents were, and how I would stand there, mentally challenging the water to come a little closer, just a little closer. I liked feeling the warmth of the water when they do come to my feet. I liked how the water would sometimes reach my knee when the current was strong enough. I liked pacing along the coast, stopping once in a while to allow my face to feel the cold air of New York. I would stretch out my arms, and I would feel the freedom and the pure rapture that came along with it. I liked waiting till my feet sank a little too deep into the sand before moving again. I liked retracing my footprints at exactly the same spots. I liked how clear and vast the water and sky were, and how they both seemed to exist in a parallel universe. As I stood, I would imagine the waves sweeping me into and under the water, into another world of unknown and what I would find there, beneath the smooth waters. I would stand there interminably, but the night gave way to a cold too unbearable for my fragile bones. I would retreat slowly, back to more stable ground, away from the waters. I liked looking back as I walked, at the dent my feet had made in the sand. It let me know that I was there, if I’ve ever been there at all…
16th June 2013
We started running. Holding each others’ hands, we ran. Across the road, across the field, across the bridge. Our legs brushed against the blades of the fine grass and the repetitive sounds of our shoes slapping against solid cement reached our ears as we allowed the cool air touch our faces on a cold Sunday morning.
We started running so fast, everything seemed surreal. Skyscrapers appeared to be moving, people appeared as barely visible phantoms, cars seemed to be running on half their usual amount of petrol. We ran so fast we couldn’t even hear our own laughter. We did not think. We felt. We felt higher than the birds in the sky, higher than the satellites in the unknown space a googolplex miles away. Our laughter went into the air, up into the sky and up into the clouds. We were changing the universe, because for a moment right there, no matter how soft our laughter were, they were there. And we were not insignificant.
8th September 2013
I got up abnormally early today. Was it because of that dream I had? Or was it because of the caffeine swimming in my blood? I wasn’t sure. But as I looked through the glass separating me from the morning air outside, there was one thing I was quite sure of. It was going to be a good day.
I laid my chin by the window as the subtle vibration of the engine tickled my skin. As my eyes found the red that would soon transmute to green, dad asked if we’d like to hit the road.
‘That sounds nice,’ was what I said. Mom was swiping the screen with fervidness in her attempt to make virtual candies behave so that she could tell me tomorrow she made it to another level. Yeah, gotta love her. Exchanging a knowing glance with my dad by the rearview mirror, the green shone and I heard him pull the gear. And just like that, we’re off. Putting my headphones on, I saw her smiling. He was too. I know he did. And so, I smiled along.
We were on the highway. I remembered closing my eyes as the heavenly voices of Chris Martin and James Morrison worked their way along my nerves. I also remembered opening my eyes to the everlasting stretches of green. The green that fed my eyes with its tinge, the green that fed a peasant’s child, the green that lied beneath the blue. Watching the cars and the country flash by, my mind flew with them. I wondered if any of those cars held a child like me, occupying the whole of the backseat with a cross-eyed mother trying her best to master virtual candies and a father with freshly-gelled hair taking the wheel. I wondered how the birds felt, when they flew oh so high above with their feathery black peers. Driving over the beautiful white bridge that separated two solid grounds, I wondered what swam within those waters underneath. The interminable contact between the rubbers of the tireless wheels and the rough country road had led us to but the only lovely sanctuary that held its so very fine sand. The beach.
It was empty, save a few ruminating souls watching the waves from a distance.
‘I guess it’s just us then,’ dad whistled as he stretched his arms after the long drive.
It was. It was just us, and that was good.
Everyone has their own personal beach in their dictionary. To a five-year old boy with leukemia, it could be watching the last tinge of orange fade away, oblivious to the tears his mother shed from behind, because she knew that the number of times he could watch the sun set was limited. She knew. To a grey-haired couple, it could be watching their grandchildren running around with their wet hairs clinging to their swimsuits, as the sounds of their laughter surround them. To a newly-wed couple, it could be watching their friends holding on to their daughter as she touched those waters. Maybe they would laugh when she splashed water on her mother’s recently done hair and talk about having a child of their own on their ride home. To me, it was the tranquility, the Sunday sea breeze and the periodic crashing of the waves while the voice of the lead singer of the Temper Trap fills my soul with pure rapture.
Lying on the hammock with my arms behind my head, I remembered something a friend of mine shared with me a mere dozen hours ago. She said, ‘God can be anything.’
Looking up, again I wondered. Could God be in the wings of the birds that flew above those warm waters? Could God be in the threads of the hammock that messed up my scorched brown hair? Could God be in the branches that made up the lines looking down at me from above? Could God be in that flawless line that separated the smooth waters from the fine sky above? Could God be in the wind that caressed our faces? Could God be in the laughter of the couple strolling by the shore, not far away from where I lied? Could God be in that very book my teacher gave me that helped me find my very own yellow world? Could God be in everything we ever had, or never had?
The first drop of water that turned the sand around me to that particular shade of brown broke my cogitation, and I knew. I knew it before they yelled my name that it was time. The clouds have become too heavy and the waters were falling from above. It was time to go. As I stood and brushed the sand off me, I knew then that she was right. He could be anything.
12th September 2013
‘This seems like a good spot,’ I called out to them. With my ubiquitous judicious flair, how could they not concur? And after the cursory palaver of settling down with mom fussing over which spot was best paucity of ants, we did anyway. Trying my best to position myself on those dry rocks facing those falling waters, I watched dad put on his goggles as mom descend those dry rocks and then wet rocks where moss found abode, towards the waters. Waters so cold it makes your lungs work their magic a little too much, but you would be warm enough soon, if you’d let it. Sitting on that hard solid rock facing those white waters with its white given by the bubbles whose existence was liable, and with the embracement of good music and the sound of the falling waters, I knew then life was worth living.
***
‘Is it deep?’ she asked before I could look away.
‘Not really, no’ I smiled awkwardly. If she wasn’t keeping her glassy orifices on her son so intensely, I might have even added something. Maybe it would be ‘The rocks are all kinda all over the place so,’ and then I would try to attempt a casual laugh, or a smile, at the very least. But I looked away. She needed to watch her son. As I watched her wade through those clear waters towards her son, away from those pounding waters hitting my back, I had the falls for myself.
The falls, with its clean waters flowing over its slippery rocks that give you blue skin in one misstep and burst vessels in one scratch, with blood lining up those lines making up the torn skin that would dry up soon enough. The falls, with the wet moss in certain patches here and there that wasn’t there months ago but was there today. The falls, with the yellow leaves falling from above to the waters below, which rode the west wind with the current in its glamorous and effortless float. They too were once green. But unlike the little boy not far away from my stationary stature with my wet shirt clinging onto my back, it didn’t need any yellow float made up of a million carbon atoms. After all, it was a leaf. It was meant to float.
29th September 2013
It’s dark and cold. But I couldn’t bring myself to reach the sweater across the bedroom from my bed. I was in too much pain, and wasn’t really sure if I could get back to a position as comfortable as this if I moved. You see, it all started two nights ago. I was just playing around with my guitar when I felt a sharp stabbing pain below my abdomen, just around the bladder. I ignored it because I thought it was just some menstrual cramps and that it would go away after awhile. Well, it didn’t. In fact, it got so bad it felt like Voldemort was stabbing my bladder with the Sword of Gryffindor for a dozen straight hours. That was the worst night of my life, so far. In the morning, it got so bad I started crying, which was weird, because I haven’t cried for some time.
It wasn’t all bad though, because for the first time in a long time, I felt ten again. Or maybe younger. I wouldn’t go into too many details because they’re kind of personal. But I did remember the touch of his hands as they wiped the tears off my face and the softness in his voice when he said those words. The softness that had slowly went away as I grew.
‘Don’t cry,’ was what he said. For some reason, I cried even more after that. I missed him. I missed that part of my dad, at least. All those times I’ve yelled at him, I wished I’ve been a better daughter.
The pain made it impossible to walk, so he got me on the phone with the doctor. It was really embarrassing because I made awkward groans throughout the call. I was in so much pain. But it didn’t matter, because they called the ambulance in the end. It was weird being in the hospital again after so many years. The first time I was admitted to those plain white walls was exactly a decade ago, when I was seven. I had a really bad fever and all I could remember was that there were tubes attached all over my body and that they put what I used to call a ‘gas mask’ over my face, which made it incredibly difficult to breathe. But I didn’t say anything, because I couldn’t. Instead, I looked at the bad with the dripping water and wondered if they made the same sounds as raindrops on a windshield. I also remembered watching those people come and go. There were so many of them. Cousins I’ve fought with over some plastic toys, uncles and aunts whom I remembered better by faces than their names. Maybe it was that particular mole or that strange earlobe.
Anyway, I watched them come and go. On the day I was to be discharged, they were detaching all those tubes from my body and when it came down to the last needle, I remembered very clearly what the doctor said.
He said, ‘So, little champ, you ready?’
I nodded. I was, I was ready to go home. And just like that, he ripped it off. I didn’t scream or anything, because I knew that was the last. It was the last, and I was going home.
This time, it was different. I screamed, a lot. It wasn’t until the anesthetic went swimming in my blood that I believed heaven wasn’t a myth. Someone asked if it were twins. No kidding. That was my first brush with UTI (Urinary Tract Infection), and hopefully the last. They said it was dehydration. I’m drinking more now. Well, chugging.
It’s really late at night and I couldn’t sleep. The infection had gotten to the abdominal areas and it’s making me really uncomfortable, which is why I’m writing at two in the morning. But I guess it’s fine because I really do like to write. I felt kind of bad for locking the door when I knew my Grandpa was going to check on me but I didn’t want him to worry that I still wasn’t asleep yet, especially when I wasn’t well. So here I lie in bed, surrounded by books with empty cups and food wrappers by the desk. Maybe I’d clean it up when I feel better. I just wish the pain would go away. Do appreciate every moment even if it’s not the best, because it could be a whole lot worse. What I’d give to go back to that moment with my guitar without this infection wrecking up my body. But I guess I should be thankful, because it could be worse. It could be.
I think and wonder a lot. People say that I don’t smile a lot, but beneath the part of me that appears ‘intimidating’ or ‘awkward’ to some people, I’m a pretty emotional and sentimental person. You’d never guess it if you haven’t seen my writings. At least that’s what Steve told me anyway. Which is why I love writing so much. I think I find myself through those words I didn’t even know existed within me. As I wrote and listened to that particular song, I couldn’t help wondering what had been going through his head when he wrote that song, or how many lives he had touched with those few words, because they’re not just songs. They’re memories, part of people’s lives at some point or another. To somebody, it was a song that reminded him or her of that special person in his or her life. To another, it was a moment. I wondered how many have listened to the song before me, or if anyone felt the same way about it as I did. Because then we wouldn’t be much of a stranger to each other anymore, and that maybe people would hate each other less and the world would be a happier place to live in. Because some people just don’t see it. They don’t.
I guess I just wanted to say that there were some bad days, but also unexpectedly beautiful ones. After all, it takes the bad to know the good. There is so much more that I want to say but I think I’ve written enough for tonight. The pain is coming in waves now, I just hope I get better soon.
Goodnight.
30th September 2013
I woke up with a really bad fever today. The throbbing pain around the abdomen would not go away. When my mom brought me to the clinic, the doctor didn’t know what was wrong with me so he wrote a letter for my mom to bring to the hospital. Thank God I brought a book. When they sent me to the emergency ward, I had to do a urine and blood test. Before that, the doctor applied a kind of gel on my belly and probed around with some kind of instrument. I think it was a transducer. I was hoping he would stop because it was getting mildly annoying. When I was waiting for my blood test, I tried to read lying down but the hospital bed really was uncomfortable so I gave up trying to read after awhile. The patient to my left was a little kid who really got on my nerves because he wouldn’t stop crying and then blasting some annoying ass song on his iPad. So I put on my earphones on full blast. Elvis really was some singer.
When the nurse finally came in for my blood test, she said not to worry. So I didn’t, because I’ve had a blood test before, but that was from an experienced doctor. I wasn’t so sure about her. But I decided to put my trust in her. Which turned out to be a big mistake. When she inserted the needle into my left hand, which was also my writing had, I almost died. She couldn’t find the right vein and rotated the needle several times.
‘We’re gonna need to do your right arm now,’ she said.
‘What?’ was what I said. She just laughed.
I needed to stab someone.
I waited four hours for my CT scan. The wait was horrible. Babies crying, kids screaming, people moaning around every corner. When it was finally time for my CT scan, they had me change into those hospital robes where you tie a ribbon behind and all. It made me really mad because it was really hard to change with the IV tube attached to my left hand. It took me twenty minutes. They thought I died in the changing room.
The CT scan was frightening. They had me lie on the movable table and when they started the machine, it sounded like those sounds roller coasters made at the peak. I started imagining really bad things like the machine exploding and cremating me alive like how it happens in the movies ‘Final Destination’. Then I started to get one of my panic attacks. The doctor came smiling. I guess he was trying to comfort me but he failed terribly. His smile wasn’t comforting at all. It was like those satirical smiles they give you in a slaughterhouse. I wanted to scream ‘Get The Fuck Outta My Face’, but I guess I was too tired for that.
When the report came out, they discovered that there was some kind of tumor around my left ovary. It was seven point eight centimeters long. The doctor said he had to operate to remove it. When I asked ‘remove what?’ and he said the ovary, I just lied there. I really didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t until the nurse wiped my face that I realized I was actually crying. I guess I was just sad that a part of me would be leaving tomorrow.
When the doctor told me that I could have ten children if I desired, I started to feel a little better. Maybe Steve wouldn’t mind. My mom went to call my dad so I was alone with the doctor for awhile.
‘So, what would you wanna do when you get out of school?’
The same old question.
I told him I wanted to be an eye doctor and a writer. He made a comment about me reading a lot. I just nodded. When they wheeled me out of his office, he asked why I wanted to be an eye doctor.
And I said, ‘Because I couldn’t take care of my own eyes.’
They all laughed. I still couldn’t figure out what’s funny.
1st October 2013
Today was the day of the operation. It was supposed to be in the morning but there were some emergencies and they weren’t ready for me till four. This time, I was sharing the ward with a malay woman in her mid-forties. She had diabetes. While I was waiting for my operation, her doctor came and told her a lot of stuff I didn’t really catch. It was in malay. When he left, she started crying. Not the sob kind, like the really loud and wet kind. I felt really bad for her. I wanted to go to her and give her a hug but I couldn’t. So I just stayed in bed and listened to her cry. I guess she just needed to let it out. I really don’t like hospitals. It really is a sad place. I wanted to cry too, but that would make it too depressing, so I didn’t. I just wanted it to be over.
When it was time, mom helped me change into those operation robes and put on the green surgical cap. I wasn’t afraid at first. As they wheeled me to the operation theatre, the hospital lights and ceiling flew past me. I was clutching two Polaroids of me with my teacher and Steve really tight. I closed my eyes and imagined that they were there, and that everything was going to be fine. But I knew they were there, because I was holding that moment captured in a flash when I was standing next to them.
When they strapped me onto the surgical table, I started to panic a little. Someone took those Polaroids away and I couldn’t hold on to it because they injected the anesthetic into my bloodstream. I wanted to scream for them to give it back, but I just couldn’t. He was gone, she was gone, and I was alone. I started to imagine things like the anesthetic running out in the midst of the operation and got a really bad panic attack. That was when they put the gas mask over my face, which was the last thing I remembered.
2nd October 2013
The stitch looked really disgusting. The doctor said I shouldn’t walk for now. Not yet at least. So my mom took care of me while I was bed-ridden. She fed me food from home because you really don’t want to taste hospital food. I was also feeling a little sad because there were many things I couldn’t eat after the operation.
It all started with my dad. I was feeling really moody and he was trying to cheer me up. Which turned out all wrong because I couldn’t laugh. When I started to laugh, it hurt so bad it started burning. That was when I started screaming because I couldn’t stop laughing. Everyone started laughing. It got so bad they had to leave the ward so I would stop laughing. The nurse gave me a jab of anesthetic after that. I started to imagine that if villains ever took over the world, they would put operated patients in a room with Rowan Atkinson taking the flat screen. I wondered if their wound would open up from all the laughing. I really didn’t want to imagine that, so I went to sleep.
3rd October 2013
I tried to walk today. It hurt a little bit, and I started to worry because my finals were coming up in three weeks, which got me really frustrated.
During my stay, I shared the ward with several different patients who came and went. One had some kind of tumor up her nose and another had some kind of bad cells ingesting all her butt skin. One side got operated on and she could only sit on one side. The last one had the same operation as me. You really could get anything these days.
My day got a little better when I received a message from my teacher. She asked if I was feeling better. That was nice. I wondered how she knew about me.
4th October 2013
I was getting discharged today. When the doctor came to change my plasters, he talked a lot about what it takes to be a doctor. But all I wanted to say was ‘Shut The Fuck Up And Plaster It Up!!’ because it was so cold and he wouldn’t stop talking. But of course I didn’t. Instead, I said thanks, because that was the nicest thing I could think of to say. I finished ‘The Perks of Being a Wallflower’ again today. And I also got the Polaroids back.
All was well.
30th October 2013
So I’m up and writing again. It’s been a few busy weeks, but to be honest, I really wasn’t feeling the mood or atmosphere you’re supposed to be feeling when you’re taking those major exams. I don’t know why, but I just don’t feel anything. Maybe it’s because I just was too tired to think or care about my academics when I was so mentally drained. Steve hasn’t been replying my texts lately, and I’m trying not to think too much about it. Sometimes I think about what my teacher has said and wonder if he’s really an asshole. It hurts to think that because he can be really sweet at times when he wants to. I guess I can still be happy about the fact that someone else apart from him still cares about me. Someone outside my family I guess. One can only hope that much. I feel really lucky at times, when I think about the people I’ve met and grown to like. You really find people in the weirdest of places.
Today has been a drag. Yesterday was the last day of essay papers, that is, if you don’t include Chinese, because to be brutally honest, I don’t even know why I ever took up the subject. So practically speaking, yesterday was kind of the end of it all. It’s going to be another two weeks before the science objective papers. No big deal. And so when I reached home, I indulged myself in a warm shower a bit longer than I should. My dad thought I died in there. Anyway, after that, I just slept, and slept. I spent the whole day today watching the television, trying to get some inspiration for my writing. I really wish Steve would call.
1st November 2013
I spent an hour or so hanging by the balcony today, watching the sky pour heavy droplets with its thunders echoing across the silver sky. As a few droplets bounced off my legs, I watched the birds took off from those power lines as the thunder stroke once, twice, and a third time. It was really loud, but I sat calmly, watching the violet streaked across the blue and silver sky. I needed something to write about, so I went to the balcony. But I only managed to pen out a poem, so I went back in for a shower after further pointless cogitation. When it was clear that I needed further inspiration before I can really pen out something to my satisfaction, I resorted to watching a movie I recently downloaded from the Internet. It was ‘The Help’, and I was really looking forward to it because of its positive reviews and all.
So I sat down and started to watch it. At first, I laughed. And then, the tears started coming until the credits went rolling. I practically sat there and wept like some pathetic motherfucker for two hours. As the final lines of the credit went up the screen, I knew then what I was going to write.
2nd November 2013
I can’t stop watching ‘The Help’. If you haven’t watched it, please do me a favor by watching it someday. It is by far one of the best movies I’ve ever watched. In my personal belief, a good movie reaches into you and makes you reflect and ruminate about things like life, love and just about everything. Mostly, I am sad to watch how badly colored people were treated in America back in the past, and how mean white people were to them (not all of them though). I really like nice and sincere people. They really make the world a better place and their existence is a sign that says ‘Hey, it’s not all that bad that your only son died, someone else is here for you, and one day you’ll see the world in a brighter light again, you’ll see’.
I think, no, I’m sure that’s why I love to write. My friends have told me that I’m really good with words, that they really make them feel. When I write, I lay down everything I feel, and then I let people feel them too. Because these black letters on white pages aren’t just words, they’re a trigger that makes you feel, and that’s the most powerful thing about writing. If you write well enough, you’re not really telling, really. You’re showing the people your world, your story.
I don’t know about you, but every time I write, read or watch something, I always have that particular feeling deep inside me that slowly rises in my chest. It may be a scene from a movie or certain notes in a song. But mostly, this feeling just makes me feel so alive. It’s something that reminds me that I’m not just an animal or a creature who goes around trying to live every day, that I’m actually alive and feeling. And I knew then, just maybe, by writing, I would be able to create a feeling somewhere along those lines in other people too. That people would see, smell, hear, taste and feel what I did. That people would feel less lonely if they knew that they’re not the only ones who’ve ever felt a certain way. That maybe, just maybe, people would love each other more.
8th November 2013
Sometimes I just can’t stop thinking. Those thoughts just keep doing cartwheels in my head. Even when I try my hardest not to think, well, them thoughts could be giving me the finger with their tongues out for all I cared. They drive me insane. They make me want to grab the closest sharpest object and stab myself in the head just to stop thinking. Especially when it’s something you really don’t want to think about and something which upsets you to an extent that have you not been in your right mind, you would have walked straight to the window, and… you know what comes next. The more you try not to think about it, some rebellious cells beneath your will would always, always surface and force and compel you to think about it. As if it’s not bad enough, it would make everything as vivid as possible. I don’t know about you, but that’s how it always is for me. Maybe it works different for you or that you have much better self control than I do. Anyhow, it’s killing me all the same.
Today has been one of those days, wait, scratch that. The past week has been as ‘terrific’. Today was just a tad worse. I started getting one of those panic attacks again, because Steve hasn’t called for quite some time. I felt empty, and just lonely. I was sitting on my bed looking out the window listening to some good ol’ Presleys’ before coming in front of the laptop to write. I just couldn’t do it anymore. I think I’m gonna break. I think I’ll go hang by the balcony for awhile. Hope there’s stars. I think night skies are really cool.
When I got out, there were no stars. The air was completely still and the sky a spread of its normal black. I sat for just about twenty minutes before the first blinking white light appeared in the sky. It was a plane. That got me wondering whether what those people up there were doing. If they were reading, sleeping, eating, talking or fighting for the arm rest. If the pilot was happy to be flying. I guess he was, or he wouldn’t have taken up this particular occupation which required a pair of excellent and almost perfect eyes. My eyes followed the blinking white which went on and off, on and off. Just when I thought I’ve lost it, it came on again, each time moving further away from me, a thousand feet below. Then I remembered something I used to ask my mom when I was a kid, if I could reach the sky if I stacked up a million ladders. She had smiled and said, “Oh honey, it doesn’t work that way,” before tussling my hair and resuming applying her lipstick. It was crimson, I think. The plane has gone where my eyes could no longer follow. About five minutes later came another plane. This time, there were both red and white lights, and this plane flew much faster than the previous. It wasn’t long before my eyes lost track of that object of scrutiny. When I looked up a little later, lo’ and behold…a star! A twinkling star! That was when I smiled and thanked God for granting me that tiny pleasure of night sky with a star. At least for tonight. It was just a star, but it made me feel less empty, or lonely. Because I knew that God was there, and He had made that particular star shine down bright, just for me.
I thought there wasn’t going to be any stars. But there was one, and that was enough.
10th November 2013
I went to church today for the first time in months due to my hectic examination schedules. When I stepped through the gate to the church, I felt good. Not just good, but good good. The kind of good you feel in the presence of Him. When Gramps and I went to find seats, the church was just filling up with people. While we were waiting for the mass to start, a couple of kids were running around yelling at each other where their parents tried to restrain them but failed terribly, resorting to looking ahead helplessly instead. One day, you’d be a momma too, and you’ll find how it’s like to try and breastfeed your baby while he bites down hard at you. One day you will all know, but for now, you children go ahead and have fun. I smiled as I thought this, marveling at the cycle of life. It wasn’t long before the ceremony started where the Father walked down the aisle flanked by the kids carrying our great Lord on the cross towards the altar, where the Father took his position behind the microphone.
I can’t tell you how glad it was to be back in the holy home of the great Lord. For the first time in so many days, I put my hands together and said my first grace to the good people around me. For the first time in so many days, I put my left hand over my right in receiving the Holy Body of Christ. For the first time in so many days, my sins have been atoned. And I was clean and free once more.
‘The mass has ended. Leave in peace. Amen,’ said the Father.
And so, we too, said ‘Amen’, before making the sign we have been taught to make since we were five, flanking our parents into the church on a Sunday morning after some grateful indulgence in Cheerios.
I feel fine.
-KC