Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

54 | Latching (Part One)

DOMINGO
6:08 PM

Dahlia Gray

Every step felt like shallow breaths.

In a two-week time frame, I have not talked to Harlow once.

There was an attempt, at least, but it ended in him turning his back to me and walking away. I could feel my knees buckle under me with each step he took, and the air in my lungs knocked out with each second that strains upon us. There was an indescribable pain that was designated in my chest—tightening, and rubbing bones against one another, each breath piercing.

It hurts, but I'm trying to progress.

I took in Aysa's words like the verses of a Bible, and tried to hold myself accountable to all the action I wish upon me. I'm trying to draw the line between who I am without Harlow and who I can be furthering this notion. It's been hard, but it's working.

And my mother is one of the main reasons for it.

She started to re-attend church, in a disclosed location filled with majority Hispanics. It has always been small gatherings, little Bible readings here and there, but nothing too extensive that would catch my father's attention. Just her and God.

Today, she invited me along.

My relationship with God severed years ago, and I would like to brand myself as an agnostic. I find the truth of science much more comforting than the notions of theological beliefs, but I never question nor judge my mother for putting her faith into the one thing she knew how. It was her way to cope as much as the stars were mine.

Normally, I wouldn't go. I would rather wallow away in the pits of my bedroom or head to the park to listen to a playlist fitted for my mood, but today—I decided to branch out and go against my usual antics. It was more than just sitting alone at home with the background of a football anthem playing on speakers, or heading to a park that brings back painful memories in its parts.

I stepped into the church I longed since forgotten about, and greeted the priest and attendees I haven't associated myself with in years. I've never been here before; unfamiliar faces took my vision, smiling and greeting me in Spanish as my mother stood beside me as a moral support and guide.

She fills me in about the people here, the regular attendees that would fill the pews of the church and conversing around the coffee machine and the nuns and priest that would come around the large building, acknowledging new faces and greeting old ones alike. It made her feel seen, she reveals, and that itself was enough for me to encourage her to keep going.

Today wasn't an average day. It was a church celebration, commemorating something I didn't quite grasp. A long white tablecloth sheet drapes over a wooden table, decorated with a cornucopia of food and drinks for guests to take upon as they please.

I don't know what exactly we're here for, as my mother pulls me to the one of the pews, taking a seat on the second row, but I shut my mouth close and listen, one earbud in at a time.

The priest begins standing at the front of the church, draped in a long black robe, he reads off the verses in the Bible for the entire public to hear and situate themselves on. Attentive ears follow his language as he spoke in a clear authoritative tone, fluently translating the words off the pages into Spanish for the majority to comprehend. My mother being one of them.

She brightens with glee as her eyes follow the priest, open ears to the words of Christ. I lean my head against her shoulder, wrapping both arms around her as if I was clutching onto a teddy bear. The music in my ears beats in rhythm, gradually growing stronger and louder, sedating me to the sounds of Towards The Light by Jacoo.