Windows | Saylor Skidds
I am seven years old when I discover that rocking back and forth on the edge of the church pews makes my stomach drop like it does on roller coasters. The pews are made of blond wood and have rounded backs. The edges of the pews are slightly raised and form a kind of rounded berm. After Mass I like to slide back and forth on them or race matchbox cars from one end to another. They always end up slipping off that perfectly rounded edge. When my great grandmother kneels from the pews to pray, she loses her balance on that little berm and stumbles as she pulls out the riser. I never get caught. Mom is the church musician, so she doesn’t sit with us, and Dad always sits at the end of the pew, with my brother and I inside next to him. To him, it just looks like I have unusually good posture I don’t have anyplace else.
My family usually goes to the 11:00 mass on Sunday mornings. One time we have to go to the 5:00 mass on Saturday night. I don’t know why. My mom plays the organ, so she gets there before us. She rides with a friend. Dad, my brother and I take her car, so we get to park in the staff spaces right by the front steps. There’s a visiting priest this week. He drives a small dark green Camry. It’s parked right next to us.
I’m not used to going to church at night. The light pours out the windows instead of in. The stained-glass windows look gray and flat. Each window is a station of the cross and has a smaller window beneath with a different picture on it. The pictures always seem random to me. There are also stained-glass windows higher up toward the ceiling with psalms and pictures of bread and fish on them. Dad, Aidan and I always sit in the little alcove near the organ so we can be close to Mom. I like to stare across the church and look at my favorite window, a little one with a basket of bright red roses. Tonight, all the lights inside are on and from where I’m sitting the roses look boring and dark and are no longer surrounded by vibrant green.
When we go to church on Sundays, I leave at the beginning and go into the basement for the children’s mass. Mom has a special musical interlude she plays on the piano to serenade the children out the door. They don’t have any of that on Saturday nights, so I have to listen to the adult homily.
I don’t pay attention well in regular church. There’s so much to look at! At least children’s mass is in a bland downstairs classroom, so I can just focus on my coloring or whatever. But upstairs there are stained glass windows next to me, above me and behind me. I crane my neck around to look at the giant one behind the choir loft. Our nook by the organ also has a really good view of the cry room, so I can watch the little kids through the big glass window. I always feel a sense of superiority over them. Even though my brother and I argue, we are never, ever sent in there. I count the planks on the hardwood floor. I like to sort through the collection envelopes. For some reason it’s really important to me to use them to bookmark all the songs we sing for that day’s mass. I make designs in the nubby carpet. I crane my head upward to look at bees on the bushes in the garden. And, of course, there is my aforementioned rocking.
So, I don’t pay much attention to the priest that day. I figure since he isn’t usually here, he isn’t that important. One of the deacons introduces him. He says he’s from New Hampshire. I have no reason to pay him special attention. Because of this, I now don’t remember his name or a single word of his homily. What I do remember is the standing ovation he gets when he’s done.
I make a move to stand up. I go to the theater all the time with my grandma because my brother can’t stand it. Standing ovations are just something you have to do. It doesn’t matter whether you agree that they are warranted or not. You just do it. But I feel a firm hand pressing on my shoulder.
“Don’t clap.” Dad says. He speaks out of the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t look at me. I sit back down. So does my brother, who had been about to clap his hands.
The rest of the Mass passes as usual. Like always, we stay behind to greet Mom after she’s done playing music. We have to wait for her to be done packing up because we were all going to ride home in the same car. Our family walks out the door together and we make our way to the staff parking lot. The green Camry has all its windows smashed in. There is a large scrape near the trunk that wasn’t there when we arrived. Two old women in walkers who had been rolling down the ramp nearby have paused to stare. One makes it to the bottom of the ramp and takes out her phone.
Saylor Skidds is an English major at UAlbany from Rhode Island. This is their first time being published in ARCH. In their free time Saylor enjoys reading, sewing, and volunteering at the library.