Grace   On Sunday mornings I remember why I hated mass, or told myself I did — the musty oldness of it all, the lie that it was good for me — I was a kid with my own idea of good, and what kind of God Almighty had the time to care about taking attendance? But I shined my shoes and I went — wore a nice pair of trousers, combed my hair, and if I prayed, I prayed for it to end.                                    The music, though — I loved the way the voices filled the space, the holy thunder of the organ made sense. The priest said, The mass is ended, go in peace — my first intimation of grace.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont March 2022