Acolyte

 When I was 12 I became an acolyte at my church. I remember feeling like I was part of the cast. I was I guess. I would quietly follow the cross, holding my candle so carefully, pretending to be like the statues of angels you see in the cemetery. Quiet and perfectly reverent with just the right sort of thoughtful look on my face. Whenever I smell candle wax it reminds me of sitting behind the altar, watching the people in the congregation. 

Being twelve was confusing. I wanted to stay a kid.  I wasn’t ready for boys and makeup. I didn’t care about clothes or hairspray. I hated having to go into the girls bathroom at school. All the other girls would be fixing their hair and talking about eyeshadow and periods. I just wanted to get out of school so I could read or go into the woods play. 

Sitting in church with my fluffy white robe covering me was comforting. There I was ageless, like a cherub, always young and innocent. Special occasions were even better. Christmas Eve and Easter with the smell of incense and the instruments playing. I could leave behind my bad grades and whatever fears were brewing and just suspend my disbelief for an hour.

Then it would end. 

As soon as we crossed the doorway of the church the other acolytes would tear off their robes and the choir would begin chattering amongst themselves, complaining about the upcoming week with one another. I would find my family and nibble on a stale cookie. Sometimes before we would leave I would go into the empty sanctuary and hope I might see something. I don’t know what. An angel maybe. A sign to tell me that it was all going to be ok.