Good Friday. . .
It's the start of the Easter Holiday week-end.
This is a holiday that's never been one I cared for. . .
iffy spring weather, prissy new clothes, giant
coconut eggs nestled in baskets of fake straw.
Chocolate this. Chocolate that.
Formal Mass. Formal dinner.
My brother and I. . .
two squirmy boys longing to just go home
and change into our jeans and sneakers,
then go about our important boy-business
with our friends.
. . . last night (Holy Thursday), I had dinner warming
in the oven and was sitting in the kitchen, waiting for it
to be done. I was chewing on some ciabatta
and sipping from a glass of red wine while reading.
It finally occurred to me to wonder,
"Was I taking Communion here?"
Holy Thursday. Bread and wine. The Last Supper.
"This is my body. This is my blood."
I'm afraid that I don't know, exactly, what the prerequisites are for "Communion" to take place. Been a long time since I attended church services.
(I'm pretty sure it requires more than just the idle consumption of bread and wine.)