While we were visiting my family over Christmas break, my mom unearthed a shopping bag treasure trove of old photos, many of which I’d never seen before. Mixed in with the photos were two unfortunate samples of my childhood creative writing. One was an essay about how much middle school sucked, which my mom called one of the most depressing things she’d ever read–and this is coming from a woman whose college history students regularly write essays about how Jane Addams was John Adams’s wife and secretary. I promise I will not share the middle school essay here, today or any day, but I did promise My Awesome Pen Pal Alison Cherry to share the other piece, a poem I wrote about my First Communion. Because long before I was a dirty hippie agnostic Unitarian Universalist (represent!), I was a Very Catholic Little Girl who wrote poorly-spelled praise poetry. Apparently.
When I recive the Host,
I will never boast.
I will feel grown-up,
When I drink from His holy cup.
I walk up and start my Reading,
Then in a line, I am proceeding.
In my crown and in my veil,
Oh, Jesus and God,
How I hail!
Allielulia! Allielulia!
Hip-hip hooray!
It will be my Communion Day!
Me on my First Communion day. Note that I am not boasting.
All these years later, mostly what I remember about my First Communion, besides getting to rock a veil and tiara, is that my parents gave me my very first bike, and then we got Mister Softee.
It was awesome.
