By: Laura K.
“Remember you are dust…”
I know the words. Heard them every year, the first twenty years of my life.
I’m back at St. Anne’s, waiting in line behind the fifth-graders, trying to shift and see. Father Mark had smaller thumbs. Father MacMillan was kind but his cross was just a giant smear on your forehead. Oh, to have bangs… I’d wait an hour or two, then discreetly wipe it off.
Now I don’t go. Partly I forget; partly I feel strange walking around silently yelling I’M CHRISTIAN!
And partly I don’t want another reminder, about how we return to dust.