A Rainy Sunday Before the Mass
It’s Sunday before the parish at the end of the street. It’s raining and they all filter in; the congregants filter down from the farms nearby, the women waiting their whole week for this moment, when they would don again their finery and heels, and hold their heads high. Even as the rain drenches them; even as it intrudes upon their purposes and musses up their hair, they hold their heads high.
I’ve never been to a Mass; I’ve yet to set foot inside a Catholic church--it must be something else--I’ve no right to look upon these women, yet they fascinate me and I watch.
Oh sure, some are beset by family members, children and men, but it’s the women that I watch. This is their special moment, somehow, in the rain--in spite of the rain--because of the rain. The men don’t like it so much, but they are here for the women, here to give comfort on the one day none is needed.
I wonder what they all do in there, exactly. Should I become Catholic for a day and follow this new arrival beyond those sacred walls? Here she is by herself, no children trail behind her braying like pet goats, no man stays steps ahead in dull mock pride. Her head is wrapped in white, and I know my umbrella would do a better job, it is black. Why if I insisted on preserving her from further bombardment would she disavow herself? Would she see the folly in such ritual, Sunday after Sunday, dressing up in finery; taking bread and wine as if it were some actual flesh and blood?
Now I must wonder if it’s really wise to attempt wooing of such a one. Maybe, in her thirst and hunger after so many Sundays spent outside the redemptive show, one night, maybe on a Sunday, she’d await my falling asleep and then commence to dine--on me!
Nay, best to let them to their bread and wine, their flesh and their blood; best to let them believe it all and come here every Sunday dressed so fine, and stepping so high in their heels. I will only watch; that should be enough.
I’ve never been to a Mass; I’ve yet to set foot inside a Catholic church--it must be something else--I’ve no right to look upon these women, yet they fascinate me and I watch.
Oh sure, some are beset by family members, children and men, but it’s the women that I watch. This is their special moment, somehow, in the rain--in spite of the rain--because of the rain. The men don’t like it so much, but they are here for the women, here to give comfort on the one day none is needed.
I wonder what they all do in there, exactly. Should I become Catholic for a day and follow this new arrival beyond those sacred walls? Here she is by herself, no children trail behind her braying like pet goats, no man stays steps ahead in dull mock pride. Her head is wrapped in white, and I know my umbrella would do a better job, it is black. Why if I insisted on preserving her from further bombardment would she disavow herself? Would she see the folly in such ritual, Sunday after Sunday, dressing up in finery; taking bread and wine as if it were some actual flesh and blood?
Now I must wonder if it’s really wise to attempt wooing of such a one. Maybe, in her thirst and hunger after so many Sundays spent outside the redemptive show, one night, maybe on a Sunday, she’d await my falling asleep and then commence to dine--on me!
Nay, best to let them to their bread and wine, their flesh and their blood; best to let them believe it all and come here every Sunday dressed so fine, and stepping so high in their heels. I will only watch; that should be enough.
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