Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Luisa A. Igloria
Communion
Late winter light trickles
from an open window, thin
milk I reconstitute, powder
taken from a tin where things
are kept, to keep from spoiling—
I remember how we stood in line
on a cold sidewalk, schoolgirls
in skirts of somber blue, blouses
crisp white, walking forward to receive
monthly rations of flour and milk from
charitable souls overseas. We were
not poor, nor rich. My mother sniffed
at the taped paper sack and turned it in
her hand, looking for an expiration date.
She threw it in the trash, pronouncing
not everything we’re given free is grace.
In December, the year of our First
Communion, we made an advent calendar
with windows that could lift, to show
the stages in the journey to miraculous
birth. Brightly wrapped crayons rolled
across our desks from a brand-new box:
lime green, watermelon red, carnation,
spicy orange, saffron yellow.
In the next row, Brigit assured a trusting
Conchita they could be eaten. She foamed
at the mouth a little, the way we imagined
epileptics or saints at the point of rapture.
76 ◆ Crab Orchard Review