First Communion (11 years old)

Get out of Dad's car. It's freezing cold, and the scarce sunlight is reflected by those unhelpful white tights that you'll never wear again. In fact, you won't wear this dress more than once. What a waste of money! Instead they could've given you a Skip-it or a Hop Ball.

And that breeze, that cold breeze that cuts through your skin into your nerves like a needle. It's your first communion, not your funeral, so why are they trying to kill you?

Flash a fake smile. Half of your fanily is there. Mum brags about how beautiful her daughter is, now that you're wearing a dress and you look so girly, with those flowers in your hair. You think she shouldn't be so surprised, after all, she helped you get  ready.

You despise this austere and unfortunately familiar place. This is where all your Sunday mornings go to waste, sitting down and getting up every ten minutes, asking yourself that eternal question with no answer, 'why do I have to get out of bed if I'm going to sleep listening to the priest's dull voice anyway?' But no, every Sunday you have to make an effort to stay awake, because Mum said so. It's torture. The songs, which could be fun, sound all the same, with the same solemnity.

At least today will be slightly different. You will have to walk around, sing with the other kids, interact with Father Pedro.

Pedro. That boring old man. Poor Pedro, this is what he does all day everyday, so let's cut him some slack. You politely ask how he is, he replies with a forced smile and moves on to asking a few questions that get in one ear and come out of the other once they get answered. Then you have to confess your sins.

Ah, yes. The confession also takes place every Sunday. But today you can't find anything to confess. And Mum is not with you like the other time it happened, to tell you you can skip because she agrees you've been good that week. And this week, it's the same, only there's no escape. You explain to Father Pedro you have nothing to confess.

'Nothing? What do you mean nothing?'

You mean nothing. You're an eleven-year-old child, for Christ's sake, what in the world could you have done wrong in a week's time? No, it's pefectly plausible that you have done everything right. You've been good this week, you say. You have comitted no sins, and that is the truth.

'That's impossible. think harder, go on.'

Your memory is excellent. There's nothing to confess. But you want to get it over with because there is a time limit.

'Alright. I lied this week.', and as the words come out of your mouth they become true, you commit your sin. The confession has made you sin.

And while you silently recite your patrenosters and Hail Marys, you realise it's absurd. All of it. How you have to come up with something new to say to someone you don't know every night before dinner. And there's nothing to thank him for, your parents did all the work to get the food on the table, he never even showed up. It's amazing that they are the people that ask you to pray to Him, they should think it's unnfair. And what about the families that say Grace? They say it so often it becomes mechanical until they don't mean it anymore, like you don't mean your paternosters and your Hail Marys every Sunday, like you don't mean them now that you're thinking about all this. What is the purpose of that recitement? Exorcism? Don't think so.

So there it is. Your religious life was supposed to start today, but it's all over.

You lost your faith on the day of your first communion.