Most stories do not begin in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong narrator. But here I am, an atheist in a Catholic church at some ungodly hour.
The hardwood pew jabs at my spine, and the piney aroma of incense sickens me, but I cannot leave. Only the stained-glass Jesus looming above me knows why. His omnipresent Byzantine eyes whisper a silent command — “You promised her.”
Yes, I promised my dying mother I would go to church again.
So I have been going to mass every Sunday just to rush back to my mother’s sickbed and tell her I went to Church. Which is silly, I know. I clearly don’t want to be here.