I’m a kid. Maybe seven. Or nine. Who can tell. We’re at Christmas mass, my family and I. I’m in a nice dress, but it's itchy. Why are nice clothes always so uncomfortable? Aren’t the situations in which we are forced to wear such attire horrible enough? Before we shuffle into a pew, my mother turns to me, her fingers still damp from the holy water.
“Take this up to the front, honey, to the baby Jesus.” It is a present. People always donate baby clothes and toys and leave them as ‘gifts’ for baby Jesus. The church takes them somewhere, I guess. Maybe the Salvation Army. I don’t know. The thought of walking up those long aisles in my itchy dress in front of everyone to leave a present by the plastic Jesus gives me palpitations.
“Noo,” I whine, as quietly as possible. I am in the presence of God, on Christmas Eve, after all. Santa could still take back my presents.
“Please, you can do it.”
My body is tense, and no, Mother, what you are asking me to do might actually kill me, do you want to kill your daughter? On Christmas! I shake my head again, and this time I think she picks up on my panic.
“Fine, I’ll do it myself.”
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