The black and white collar. Cigarettes. Whiskey.
Luden’s cherry cough drops.
On Wednesdays, they were lemon flavored.
The noise outside the confessional. The silence within it.
Muffled cries so ‘God wouldn’t hear’ a thing.
Or so he said.
Later, there were the looks. The stares.
The sympathy nods from those who recognized—
there were many who were aware.
And more who knew and did nothing. Said nothing.
Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak…
Fridays are now reserved for a reunion.
We share our scars.
We went to Catholic school
and survived. I still loathe the smell of Luden’s.