Returning to my childhood church should have been simple.
Memories, routines, rituals from so many years ago return. Your body remembers what your brain has forgotten. Cross, kneel, dip. Eyes down, hands at your heart.
There’s comfort in it, of course, until you come to the parts where you get things wrong. Because it’s not all the same after all. I’ll never forget how I shook the last time I tried to take communion. The rules had changed, my hands were in the wrong place, exposing me for the fraud I had become.
Some things can’t be fixed by confession.
Posted as part of the September Story A Day challenge, for which I have come to embrace being a day late (and also probably a dollar short). The day 3 challenge was to write a drabble, or a 100-word story. Go ahead and count them – it’s really just 100 words. You’ll find more (and infinitely better) drabbles at the 100 Word Story site.
Image via Pixabay.