"Ave Maria, D. 839" Franz Schubert, composer


This is the Jesus in our living room. Before we had Jesus, we had Santo Nino, who is kid Jesus. I prefer adult Jesus because he has better clothes and has better physical proportions. (Santo Nino's head was way too big for his body.) My mom sometimes writes requests and prayers on Post-Its, folds it up and inserts them into Jesus' wooden hands. He never lets her down, she says. I say maybe her memory is selective.

At Catholic churches, you have this thing called Confessions. You go inside an enclosed booth. There is a priest hidden behind a wooden partition. You bow and kneel right next to the partition, make the sign of the cross and read aloud a prayer that they've typed up on a piece of paper and taped onto the side:

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned it has been [x] days since my last confession. I accuse myself of the following sins.”

And then you begin.

Last night, my parents asked if I was available to drive my mother to work at the end of this week through next. I said, yes, but I may have a job. They asked me what job, I said it's in downtown. And my mom said, you're going to leave me again? And my dad said, my advice is to stay here as long as you can so that you're prepared to move out when you finally do. Save your money. Do what you want to do, but this is my advice, he said. I think they feel like I'm a burden to them. So I said, maybe I just think it's time for me to leave. That's fine, my dad said, but my advice is to try to save your money before you go. Then we said thank you to each other.

When I was a kid, I'd lock myself up in a room and play with toys by myself. When I won writing competitions in high school, I'd run straight from the driveway to my room so that nobody would see the trophies. I didn't like telling them about my scholarship. I didn't tell them I have spent all of this time writing a book. I haven't told them anything about my job search.