The Sacrament of Holy Communion Sadie Thow
Oh my God,
I’m an 8-year-old Presbyterian
kid, walking down the chapel aisle,
inappropriately dressed in a white slip
and cork wedges. I’ve got a corsage
of frangipanis secured around my right
wrist, which my father –
unable to make the ceremony –
sent from Hawaii.
I’m an awkward second grader
with a 14K Ross-Simons necklace
clasped around my throat,
selected last Saturday
only because the sand dollar sitting
on the cross somewhat
resembles their host.
I’m a little embarrassed, but present
and hell-bent on receiving this rite
because it doesn’t matter if anyone
else acknowledges this
I do. And He does too.