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Down At The Cross, Elena Perez-Zetune

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For the first thirteen years of my familial life, I walked a block to devoutly pray to statues with open arms, promising open gates- my radiant mother walking with once thin father, hand in hand like a teenage couple. My sister, with her thick night-black curly hair, skipped and fell every other step, not due to young age but simply an unfortunate quarrel with gravity. Always trailing close behind was my brother clutching his precious cards shouting, “I choose you Pikachu” along the way.

From kindergarten through eighth grade, I walked through the hallways of my Catholic primary school. The …