A raw memory. Church. A loud room with children playing, thoughtlessly. Wandering wildly. I stand small and young within a chaotic garden of little ideas and unaware, tiny minds. Colorful toys veil the ground and pictures of silent saints loom. My mother rises tall and aware. She departs gracefully. I pull a blue, wooden crate to the door and climb it. Staring through the window. Bells ringing. My mom is walking down a long hall, bright with holy light. I am trembling, abiding while the adults pray. I play, barely, with a little red ambulance, watching the empty corridor. 