Baptism, my soul washed clean

a new life ahead of me of spreading my faith with

my mind, my heart, and my hands.

 

My Catholic hands 

that properly became Catholic on the day of my baptism,

as my small pudgy fingers grasped onto my mom as holy water and chrism anoint my forehead

My hands, clasped together in prayer before bed, practicing. 

 

My first Reconciliation, when I had more confidence than I do now, and my hands held my paper for prompting much more still than other times to come.

 

Bunching the puffed skirt of my wedding-like gown overcome by nerves as I stand in an ever-shortening line,

My hands cupped in one another, palms open to the ceiling, ready to receive my First Communion.

 

The jelly bean prayer at Easter time, where each brightly colored bean symbolized something about Christ, 

but I'd only cared about how satisfyingly delicious they were as I popped them into my mouth during Mass without permission.

Shreds of coconut stuck to the dips between each finger as Grandma and I made an annual Easter bunny cake.

 

The cool holy water of the water of the baptismal font on my forehead, shoulders, and chest, after deciding to make the sign of the cross after as well as before the service from the on.

 

Each cool bead of the rosary between my index and thumb as I press a little too tightly in concentration.

 

My hands shaking violently, threatening to rip the paper I hold,

as I desperately run through what is to be said at my Confirmation.

And the hands, my now Confirmed Catholic hands, clasping the blessed silver cross as a gift from my Grandmother around my neck.