At birth, “Sin” was imprinted
on my skin. A capital “S”
had to be washed up by the baptismal waters
when I was only two months old.
“How much sin can there be in babies’ dreams?”
I asked my mom years later.
“It all comes back to Adam and Eve,”
she said, and I believed.
I grew up scared of sneaky snakes
and the red-eyed devil dressed up as an angel,
alluring us to the dark side
where fire consumes the flesh,
and turns bones and souls to ash.
I prayed at night – knees down by the side of my bed,
eyes closed, palms touching each other –
went to church on Sunday mornings,
learned all about guilt, sacrifice,
submission, suffering and forgiveness,
turned to Mary, Mother of all, for compassion
and Jesus, her Son, for strength,
But the “S” always resurfaced and had to be washed away.
My first confession happened in the month of May
when I was nine. It stole my sleep the previous night:
I told a lie, I talked back to dad,
I called my sister names, I got angry at mom…
The list got recorded and repeated in my mind.
Was that all?
What if I forget a sin and go to hell? or what is worse,
What if I lie again and talk back,
and insult, and can’t keep myself calm?
Would I have to confess again?
Isn’t repenting after the fact good enough?
It wasn’t, I learned. Only those clean of sins
were worthy of tasting the body and blood of Christ.
Fearful of my human side, I turned inward
and lived in my head, where I was safe from harm.
I made up imaginary boyfriends when I yearned
to be kissed and touched, but I denied my wants.
Wasn’t touching a sin, wasn’t kissing a sign of lust?
I’m not married, I’m too young to become a mom,
Carnal desire is the snake in disguise…
Get away from it, or the snake will bite.
It lasted until the twenty-fourth year of my life.
It happened slowly; I didn’t see it come.
First was the warmth of his hand on mine
while teaching me how to grab the mouse,
his wide and long fingers, his veins
grooving his darker skin, pumping out his blood.
Next was his soft lips brushing my left ear,
when talking to me in a whisper.
Then a poem, hand-written in a paper napkin
secretly placed in between my notes.
Finally, a glass of wine by the harbor,
the sun setting behind the horizon,
his eyes fixed on mine, undressing me,
one garment at a time until I was naked,
wanted to be covered by his arms.
We hugged; he placed his hand
on my cheek; I placed my hand on his,
and caught in a magnetic field of desire,
our lips clutched, locking in our tongues
engaged in a tribal dance.
Restless waves crashed against the sea-wall
that witnessed my first taste of Sin. I cried,
not tears of fear, not tears of regret,
not tears of guilt, or tears of shame.
They were just … tears,
judgment-free,
pure,
Sinless
Sincere.