Plaids
Trish Hopkins
for Sally Strobelight
Each Friday after lunch, the entire assembly of St. Joseph's would meet to offer up prayers for the dying people of the world. One Friday, Sister Mary-Theresa herded us with her millstone hands to partake in the funeral of the janitor; Mr Smiley. Sally clutched my arm as we watched light diffuse through the tormented face of stained glass Jesus, illuminating us in red, blue and yellow.
The chapel smelled of mildewed holy water and sweaty pew-monkey children. Boys chased girls into empty confessionals, groans rising from the darkness. With the rubber soles of our black Mary Janes, we marked a hopscotch outline on the worn burgundy felt lining the aisle. Searching the pockets of our plaids, we found rocks collected from the playground to throw in the squares.
In pairs, we were ushered up to the open casket for our first look at death. Close up, the skunkiness of old age tickled our noses. I reached in and touched him. Mr Smiley's pallid wrinkled skin rouged like a cherry snow cone. Sally vomited her peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich on Sister Mary-Theresa's pristine brown loafers. We ran, bumping other children, out the heavy oak doors into the sunshine, scattering pigeons to the sky. Sister Mary-Theresa chased us half a block like a bull from Pamplona.
Copyright © 2003 American River Review
