Poor Daddy

Yesterday was my little cousin's First Holy Communion. My parents and I were invited and, nearly against my will, I participated:

The massive church swung like a pendulum before me. I inhaled and stepped forward, facing a world I did not know. Dressed in a prim blouse and with a lace garmet wrapped in my hair, I thought I looked quite the part of a Catholic. I wasn't inclined to make a derogatory statement and I had no interest in being shunned by my surroundings, so I looked the part.
Finally within the walls, I was surrounded by a marble icing on every surface. It's beauty struck me with a surprising force. There were statues of various saints and in the chapel there was a huge, intricate cross with a life-sized Jesus mounted in a classic, graphic style. His muscles had been pried from his body and his ribs carved forward. There was a strange life about it.
Sitting in a velvet dressed pew with the rest of my family, my father was on my right. As we stood to sing a hymn, he noticed how I stared into the distance and my lips were still when I should have been singing. He nudged me and held his book before my face. I waved it away and he tried again. This ritual continued until the song came to an end. With a troubled expression, he turned to me and questioned my apparent displeasure with the singing. "I'm just not in the mood to sing," I replied cooly, and with that the ceremony continued. When the prayed, I kept my head high and said nothing. Daddy placed the warmth of his hand over mine, trying to get me to hold it. I wouldn't even respond. I just stood there, still and cold, staring in another direction. The entire event was filled with little things like that one, where my father was thoroughly perplexed at my lack of spirituality.
When we arrived home, I began to realize he may not know. Slowly I gathered the courage to tell him, and by the time 8:00 struck, I was prepared. "Daddy, can I talk to you about something for a second?" I said, entering the living room. "Of course, sweety," he replied characteristically. "You know that don't believe in God, don't you? "I said, doing my best to peer up at him with innocent eyes. He said nothing, only stared at me for a moment.
He had grown up in an Atheist family and had rebelled all through his childhood, switching between religions. At last he had "found peace with the Christian God," and now he was an ordinary church-goer. His eyes were crossed with an indescribable disappointment. His thoughts rested upon the idea that his only daughter, who was growing up far too fast to begin with, had fallen into the same tragic patterns as his brother, sister, and parents. He wanted me to be his Christian little princess forever, but it just couldn't be that way.
"Why," he finally whispered. "I would rather not go into it for fear of upsetting you. I am far to cynical for my own good." I said, beaming a false beam in his direction. "What often happens is that I will tell something to an ample amount of people and then just assume everyone knows. Often a couple people miss the word. Sorry, Daddy." I said, and left the room, trying to resist the memory of his expression.

I Don't Want Kids

The sun drenched me with warmth as I rocked back and forth in the rigid swing. With each movement, the whole rickety build moaned and shreaked, making me tighten my ears. My rotund baby cousin clutched my thighs to keep from toppling from my lap and he gleefully bubbled and cooed at the motion of the swing. Back and forth I rocked. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I was trapped into rocking, for whenever I ceased, John Paul would shreak with just as harsh a tone as the swings, pounding his fists on me and saying "swing, swing, swing," in his sloshed words until I would finally bend and rock once more.
Sighing a worn and miserable sigh, I turned my vision to more of my cousins. They were older and darting across the lawn in an improvised game of tag. I was intrigued at how every single time someone got tagged, they would immediately accuse the enemy of cheating. Or they would just whine "but I hurt my ankle" or "but I'm a girl" or "but you can run faster than me" and at last conclude that it just wasn't fair. To be honest, I'd have rather been a referee to this bizarre game then rock John Paul on the unhappy swings.
Oklahoma's pale sun slunk below the horizon and I was still rocking. High-pitched mosquitoes twittered around me, searching for my blood. John Paul seemed to be amused by them, as well as immune. Finally I bit my lip in attempt to gather courage and plopped my cousin off of my lap. He screamed and kicked in rage, but I simply stood and walked away. Shortly, he gave up, huffed, and toddled after me, placing his chubby little paw in my hand. As we crossed the dark yard, I couldn't help but wonder how my aunt and uncle did it. How did they take care of this one crazy baby, let alone another two wild children? I decided then that I didn't want any kids.

Those Pale Colors

The sun steps through the glass window, giving this pale little room some more pale color. Ridiculous, nauseating chatter drifts to my corner of the room, pushing its way through my ears, however hard I try to block it out. The dull page flickers away for a moment, revealing a spectacular image of rural Germany. I see a wet grey sheen coating the folded earth. Cuddling in the pocket of this ripple is a town of red roofing, all huddled together to escape the chill of rain.
As for me, I am atop the peak of a tall, round hill, skipping over slick piles of mud that are trying with all their might to be a road. The powerful wind throws frantic raindrops into my face. Ahead, my parents refuse to face defeat by the wind and rain. Like fools, they continue their efforts in battle. How pathetically easy it is for the wind to jerk their umbrellas about, batting them like amusing little toys.
Slowly, I begin to see myself falling behind the group atop this vast hill, and I watch myself toss my ragged umbrella, which is doing me no service, into the wind, letting it soar out of sight, toppling through the skies at the wind's delight. I shake my skin from its cold coat of water and face the bleak sky with impossible joy. I spin 'round and 'round until I can spin no more, until my vision pulses and flows in a dizzy gaze. I am so happy to be here, among the fields of German harvest and the herds of bleating sheep. Anywhere but Oklahoma.
Blinking back into my pale little corner, I sigh with my crushed joy and I hear the echoes of those fantastic times in rainy Germany. For a blissful moment I had been able to re-capture my sense of home, knowing I myself was embedded into that rain, that earth, that red little town. A sense of belonging, a sense of home. My despair came from knowing I had been home for a mere 5 days in my lifetime. And, so my story goes. I live to this day among the idle chatter, the burning gasoline, and the pale colors. I live in Oklahoma.