The Worst Seat

I got to mass late today. I had to sit in the worst seat in the house. The one behind the big, square pillar. You can't see the priest from there, so the voice of the gospel seems to echo out from the small, square mausoleum at the back of the altar, the little box that holds the body and blood of Christ until his return. We won't need it then, I presume.

Not seeing father allowed me to notice other things too, like the crucifix that shines silver and gold, pulled and stretched into shape like taffy at the county fair, like the Christ of the midway, hung between the fried dough and the fresh squeezed lemonade, right there where I am.

Behind the pillar.

At the fair.