I did something different today. I wrote a letter. A real letter, not a card. With a pen. In cursive. On notepaper. And I addressed it. And put a stamp on it. There’s a mail box on the corner across from my house. I fought my fear that there were corona virus germs on the mail box handle. I pulled the handle down, and dropped the letter through the slot. And then I looked across the street toward St. Paul’s church and saw this.
Actually, St. Peter is the one in the picture. How do I know? Peter’s the one with the keys to the pearly gates and I think the big book he’s holding is where all your transgressions are recorded. You die, you go to the pearly gates of heaven,and St. Peter meets you like a bouncer at an exclusive night club and decides whether you get in.
How do I know all this? Twelve years of Catholic school. That and the fact that I had a mother who had a hard time allowing herself to relax, and enjoy something like a nice outfit or a yummy dessert without feeling guilty. And when I got older, I would ask her, “Why tease yourself? It’s not like there’s a prize for the person who suffers the most. It’s not like St. Peter’s gonna meet you at the pearly gates with a ******* Kewpie doll.”
St. Paul is down at the end of the block out of camera range, and he is wearing a mask too. And he’s holding a sword to smack the heads of passers by who might not be wearing a mask or observing proper social distancing. Which is why I did not go down there to take his picture. Because even though I was wearing a mask, I knew he was down there waiting to see if I would screw up. Twelve years of Catholic school will do that. I’m scarred for life.
Try something different and see what happens. It just might spark your creativity.
Stay safe and well.