before you go to bed

My mom made me go to church with her on Saturday evenings. Sometimes we went on Sunday mornings, other times we’d go with her sisters and we’d go out to dinner or breakfast after. My dad never went, not even to Christmas mass when they opened the big moving walls in the back to fit more seats in. I sometimes wonder if it bothered my mom that my dad never went. Even if he didn’t want to, he could’ve just faked it, if it’s what she wanted.

During the long, boring parts of Mass when we got to sit down, I’d make my mom pinch the tips of my fingers with her nails. According to mom, I had grown out of my ability to bring a notebook and pens to doodle in, so this was the best thing I had. I’d make her start right around when the priest we didn’t like started his homily. She’d go in order, finger by finger, pinching each one. Then she’d crunch my fingers together, and I’d recoil my hand, scrunching my face in response to my pet peeve. That’s how she told me she was done. Every time we’d stand to do the Our Father, she’d hold my hand tight and raise it high, and as we spoke the last “forever and ever, amen”, she’d squeeze my hand three times before she let it go. And sometimes I’d be lucky enough to sneak my hand back into hers and get her to pinch my fingers again until we had to go up for communion.

I have to pinch my own fingers now. It doesn’t feel the same.