White Shoes

My first taste of life.

The first time I had seen death it had takent he form of a cold room. It was the day of my first communion. When I had woken up from a dream I could not remember. For a few moments I had been happy but in mere seconds I had become frustrated as I forget the details of this dream. My mother at the time couldn’t quite catch details running out of my mouth as she held her cellular phone on one hand to her ear, and the other hand on my wrist, pulling me out of bed and into the bathroom. My father had all been prepped and ready in his trusty oxford shirt and black slacks. Today was a monumental step for me as a Catholic and also to my parents who see this as a sign of my aging. There had been numerous practices at the school chapel for that day; from the way we opened our mouths to the way we sat down. Everything had to be in order, our seats, our hair, our clothes, and our voices. We sung in practiced choruses, a process I later learn was not so usual in other schools.

 

We arrived an hour earlier than the grand ceremony. There were already quite a few of my classmates and other schoolmates huddled at the courtyard with their parents. Easily, the participants of the first communion could be spotted clad in ridiculously white garments, our hair hidden behind thin white veils and tied in a ponytail, our fingers wore white cotton gloves with flowery designs that matched the stockings of our feet, and our shoes as white as milk. None of us looked any different from my memory. Each of us had different faces but our outfits removed any sort of special identity within our world. I remember my mother describing us as little floating angels with the way we laughed and ran about the area. It was a perfect sunny Sunday with perfectly matched little girls. The mass went smoothly, our voices sounded as heavenly as it should, and our communion was received. If I were to be honest all the organization and similarity hadn’t given me much to feel bothered about even when the uncanny resemblance in all of us made us look completely unoriginal. I had thought that it made me feel belonged. It made me happy even after the everlasting photographs of us were taken. Even after my other classmates had left, I still had the white garments on me. I was still like them.

 

Ten minutes after everyone else had gone, my parents and I started walking opposite of the car park. My hand loosely embraced my mother’s as her facial expression began to change. In soft whispers, my parents began to talk loud enough for each other but soft enough that I could not understand.I didn’t know what they were saying and all I wanted was to eat at Dulcinea and have my favorite churros. Looking back, there were clues about what we were walking towards to but none my young self gave much attention to. A rather large man greeted my father on our way towards our destination. His hands extended above me, paying no mind to my small figure as he reached to give my father a handshake. His cheeks and nose were flushed red and his forehead started to sweat from the heat. He talks to my parents for a good minute or so until all of us walked towards the place we were supposed to go. I would eventually remember him by as Tito Third: a co-worker of my dear father. People started greeting us as we walked further and further away from the car and the sunny entrance of the church and towards the more shaded and secluded area with large acacia trees protecting us from the blazing sun. There were those sitting around a circular table that called out to my parents. I quietly slipped my hand away from my mother, who knowingly allowed me to play by the acacia trees. It was fun hopping on and off the ramps as the adults began their discussions. I had assumed it was merely one of those meetings my father told me not to interfere in. No noise or distraction from the very few people around me kept me from the excitement of exploring the church’s secluded area. After finishing my imaginative play with the trees, I decided to sneak inside the church.

 

 

 

   There was nobody reprimanding the small little girl dressed in white that day. Even as she climbed the stairs and onto the topmost private part of the church. I remember even looking downstairs to see if anyone would tell me not to enter, but it seemed useless to do so. Everyone’s head at that time was lowered and their talks were barely audible. Was it a challenge for attention that I went against my conscience and allowed the peculiar sense of curiosity slip inside me and control my steps towards the quiet dark rooms that no one seemed to enter? The closer I went in, the less light I could see, and the less light I could see, the more cold it got. As I was about to let my fear lead me back into the light I noticed that one of the rooms had candlelight inside. The fire dancing around the glass door showed more than anything else I had seen that day. “Come here” were the words it made me feel. So I slide the glass door silently while my tiny feet made no noise. The first thing I noticed was that the room smelled like flowers and then I felt the cold air as the air-conditioning hummed loudly. There was only one other person in the room-or so I thought-kneeling on the floor and leaning his hands and head on a brown coffin. I recognized him immediately but couldn’t bear to remove my gaze. His intertwined fingers muffled his cries as he leaned closer and closer towards the brown rectangular box that carried none other than his own father. My father’s boss, Don, cried more than I ever thought possible. A strong man with an ambition like no other, on his knees, somehow praying and at the same time crying for something to keep him okay. I slid the door closed after and made sure he didn’t realize that there was someone who found him. It was strange because I never saw him cry, I only heard him. I never saw the body, only the coffin. I didn’t really see death but I felt it. I felt it so much that tears threatened to fall from my eyelids. They said that death had a scythe and was made of bones, I realized then that death was scarier than that. Especially since I just only felt it.

 

When I returned to my parents and climbed down the stairs, nobody seemed to notice the red cheeks I gained from muffling my own tears. Nor did any of them realize where I had just gone in. Along with Tito Third, my parents only seemed to wonder how I got my pristine white shoes so dirty.

 

 

 

Author's Note

I had written this at a young age with little concern for grammar, punctuation, and capitalization. Despite this, I would like you to be as honest and forward and hope you can give me constructive criticism. Thank you very much.