Confession is good for the soul.
I have been told.
My first confession
at the age of seven
Took Sister Mary Claude,
whose diligence I applaud,
months to abate my fear.
First in line, I strode near
the confessional where Fr. Torre
waited to hear blood and gore
from little ones whose blame-game
only recently became a cause of shame.
With whispering words I began to confess.
“Father, forgive me.”( I felt such stress.)
“This is my first confession.”
Father stopped me right there
as I sat on the edge of the chair.
He was behind the screen,
a solemn, still figure barely seen.
“Please speak up so I can hear.”
And, so I did, and started to enumerate
all my sins, expecting him to strongly berate.
His words caused me even greater fear,
“Louise, not so loud, or all will hear.”
No longer did I worry who heard what.
He knew me, when I had been taught,
confession is anonymous.
Now, I felt infamous.
How could I face him across my Mother’s table
when he came each week that he was able
to eat her suga and Italian food;
and feel like family, with buoyant mood.
My only sin that day
was what I confessed every single Saturday,
“I disobeyed my Mother 10 times a day,
every day, of every week, of every year.
I was a disobedient child who shed no tears.
And over these many years
I have never changed my insolent creed
My father told me as I stood at his knee,
“Every man puts his pants on one leg at a time.
No one is better than you; (I liked that line)
and you are no better than anyone else.”
Equality set my soul free, made my heart pulse.
Equality became the base of all courage.
Equality kept me from being discouraged.
As a woman in a man’s world and profession.
I learned to speak up and out loud in my first confession.
annarino writes 