priest ovenbird They invite us to their church for a fish fry. My uncle is serving crisp pickerel to the congregants. He keeps picking French fries from the serving tray with his tongs and putting them straight into his mouth then using the same utensil to serve people their dinner. When my mother suggests this might be a serious health and safety violation he insists that his mouth isn’t actually touching the tongs. People keep choosing the baked potato wrapped in foil rather than the fries, but he doesn’t think this has anything to do with his behaviour. I eat my fish and chips and wish that I had also opted for the baked potato. The priest comes around to our table, diligently mingling with his flock. His open cardigan reveals the white square at his throat, symbol of purity and service, but also of power. It sets him apart, makes him visible, places him above the rest. He smiles at us in the way priests do, too softly, like his mouth is hiding something behind his teeth. His interest in us is not genuine, it’s mandated by his job. He’s a merciless collector looking to add human souls to his parish. He wants to range us all out on the pews so he can marvel at how many there are, he wants to make us sing. He wants us to confess. One of the priests recently retired. We wonder if Catholic priests are allowed to retire from their vow of celibacy when they retire from their ministry. “No one should be forced to live like that,” my mother says. “I agree,” says my aunt, “but I don’t make the rules.” We’re not actually sure who does make the rules. Jesus? The Vatican? What I know is that the rules don’t protect anyone. The rules let predators hide. The priest that married my parents turned out to be a child molester. When they found out it left a stain on their union. Whenever they think of their wedding day now they carry the knowledge that the man blessing them was doing unspeakable things with the hands he held above their heads. We go back to my aunt’s house for tea and cinnamon doughnuts. She didn’t even freeze them or cut them into tiny pieces or scrape the chocolate icing off like my Baba used to do. We’re breaking family patterns one doughnut at a time. We’re allowed to eat a whole one if we want but I’m too full for that and only eat half. I haven’t been to church regularly since I was twelve years old. I already had an inkling of the truth back then. The men were all devouring things they had no right to touch, leaving behind a smear of contamination. They made us think we were sinners while their filthy fingers held the host aloft. I gave things up for Lent in a futile attempt to save my soul. Not anymore. I eat my doughnut. I drink my tea. I refuse to fast. When the priest smiles his flaccid smile, I smile back, keeping my lips closed to hide the barbed wire guarding the tongue I won’t let be taken by the likes of him. 260228 what's it to you? who go blather from