Masks part one

Ten thousand tired evergreens surround me in a circle. I reach my hand up, gripping the scaly surface of the branch and pull. Dozens of green needles dance around me, tickling my skin and sliding off my mask. I wonder what they feel like on my face. I stick my dirty fingers up through the bottom of my mask, feeling the curves of my cheek, rubbing the grime in. Slowly I reach my hand up to the base of my head, glossing over the waxy string holding my mask in place. My fingers slide over the knot. If I could just loosen it a little… I grip the end of the string with my index and thumb. I can hear the distant bellow of St. Luke’s—I was going to be late for mass. I forget about the sleeping green giants and my mask and dash off to the temple. Ten thousand tired evergreens skip by me.

Tired and hot I open the door to the temple, brushing myself off as I enter. I can see my mother in her green dress standing in the aisle, looking for me. Out of the slit of her mask I catch the glint of her eye.

“Where have you been? Look at you…â€? she scolds me. “Just look at you.â€? She says, wiping dirt off of my mask, unaware of the mess underneath. “Go, sit.â€?

I sit down in our usual spot in the middle of the right section. A familiar old woman sits next to me, facing forward. I study the side of her mask, bright and shiny and ornate. She must be a wife to a congressman. The gaudy and delicate features of her mask contrast my mother’s and my own, all off white and patchy and tired. To my right sits my younger brother, his mask similar to my own. He taps the outside of it. I take a peak at the back rows and I can see the tops of heads and the tips of masks, black and fading. Undesirables. The have-nots.

My mother takes her spot next to me, and with full attention to the front, joins in with the hymn.

Supper time. There isn’t much conversation these days. The empty chair at the head of the table was loud enough, usually. I can hear my mother breathing between bites under her mask. Mine begins to itch.

“Why do we have to wear our masks, momma?â€?

My mother coughs, and wipes her mouth with a cloth. “Because that’s how things are. You wear your mask to show your place, boy.â€?

“Why does that old lady get a shiny mask, then?â€?

“That old lady is worth more than you or I ever will be, boy. She’s good and famous around these parts, you should darn well know that much.â€?

“Why is she famous, momma?â€?

She sighs, exasperated with my ignorance and youthful curiosity. “She’s the wife of a congressman, baby.â€?

“So why does that make her special?â€?

She shoots up, suddenly tense. She points at me, her hand shaking. “Now you listen here. You don’t ever ask about our masks or hers again, you understand that?â€?

I cower in my chair. “Yes, momma.â€?

She holds her ground for a bit, then loosens up again, sliding back into her seat, readjusting her mask.

My own worst enemy

I’ve got these self-destructive tendencies

I feed off my own popularity

The pharmacist to my drug dependencies

And a slave to familiarity

Sometimes I wish I could change

But really I don’t

Because I’m afraid of the strange

So I guess I won’t

k

Listen Kalee I’m going to hit the hay

We’ll talk about this another day

No more arguing, I’m through

I think you have read too much into

Text message received: “kâ€?