When I was a little girl, I remember going to an old baptist church. I’m sure it’s still there. I can still hear the songs, I can feel the rumble from stomping feet, I can smell the scent of the old pews, I can see the large narrow stain glass windows and pulpit where my dad sometimes stood. I can taste the communion crackers and the strong wine that left a burning sensation in my chest at 4 years old. I knew when the church ladies were cooking downstairs because you could smell the fried chicken coming through the basement up the stairs into the sanctuary.
I don’t remember whether I was excited for the food or not because my mom cooked just like that at home and everyone loved my mom’s cooking.
I just remember when there was no food being cooked downstairs and my father would have me and my mom waiting. My little brother didn’t count. He was too little. We seemed to always be one of the last people leaving, but the Reverend didn’t care.