Brought up Catholic in a rural town, crucifixes in every room of the house. Weekly traumatic recitations of sins to the confessional grate. Anne-Marie fled when she turned eighteen. In New York City she buried her head in anonymity: crowded streets and subways. Religion and family left behind, she savored freedom in the solitude of multitudes. Then came the call.
“Your father is dead. Don’t come home. It’s too late.”
So Anne-Marie simply went to bed . . . for days.
Until she found herself in a church. Walking down the aisle pushed by childhood memories. Muscle memory bent her knee in genuflection. At the communion rail, her hands appeared in front of her. Thin wafer received. Consumed. But then came wine? Since when? And the faint perfume from its chalice steals her resolve. She gulps as tears flow. Somehow, she’s back in the fold.
Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. BUT, today, we write flash fiction!
Prosery is a form created by dVerse. A line from a poem is provided and we must include the line, word for word, within a piece of flash fiction of 144 words or less. The line provided today is
“And the faint perfume from its chalice steals ”
from the poem Sympathy by Paul Laurence Dunbar.
lillian the home poet 
Poor Anne-Marie. I remember what it was like in Ireland, ‘in a rural town, crucifixes in every room of the house. Weekly traumatic recitations of sins to the confessional grate.’
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I grew up Catholic and will never forget how much I hated going to confession as a kid. Also went to “sister school” and had a nun who was so mean….at least that’s how I remember Sister Floriana!
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Lovely story, Lill, despite its sadness. The redemptive end for Anne-Marie, her being “back in the fold” where she truly belonged, is such a satisfying conclusion.
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Well…..it was traumatic for her as a child in the story….and it took a traumatic event for her to go back. So I guess there’s truth (at least in this tale) to the saying “there is comfort in rituals”.
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I’m not Catholic, Lill, but I have immense respect for how the Catholic church tries to communicate the Gospel through ritual, sometimes to a fault. What I took away from your beautiful story is that church is for broken people. That at least has been true for me.
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There are probably things you cannot escape…
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Beautifully written Lillian. Great use of the prompt line!
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Interesting
much love
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Pulled at my heart. Well written.
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When a person ventures out to stay alone, the first casualty more often than not is their beliefs and faith. Should have been the other way round when one seeks solace and shelter. Great write Lillian! Love it!
Hank
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Faith. I’m not Catholic, but I certainly get the growing up in church, running and returning with tears. Well written.
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oh man raised catholic i was constantly distracted by the father swinging the incense, the latin spoken, the bended knee, standing, sitting, reciting… and whenever i looked up at jesus on the cross i always asked what are you doing there so innocently and never heard a word back.. until one day a friend told me.. he’s no longer on the cross dear, he sits at the right hand of the father as our intercessor… ohhhh…. freedom rings…. i cannot bear when i see a crucifix… that’s what comes to mind when i read your 144 prose story… which btw is a beautiful story affecting me in such a way i cannot help but to express
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