Snake Road

Back when my mom tried to hypocritically instill Catholicism into my seven-year-old brain, we went to a small church in Colonial Heights, VA. Every Sunday, I sat in an uncomfortably ruffled dress and listened to things that I compared to Aesop's Fables. I spent Sunday School forming crushes and working on my coloring book techniques. I knew that I just had to sit through one hour before we could get ice cream. I was routinely taken to a tiny booth to get a Neapolitan ice cream sandwich after being submitted to hellfire and damnation. But on one particular Sunday, I was feeling ill and had had enough of the solemn environment. I saw two people exiting the church, and wanted a solid explanation as to why we had to stay.
"They're probably just going to the bathroom," my mom quietly stated.
"NOPE, THEY'RE LEAVING!" I screamed dramatically, pointing at the poor couple trying to escape. The entire church turned to witness this abomination. I was quite pleased with myself, and stood up as though it was my turn. My mother yanked on my arm until I fell onto the solid pew, and attempted to hide her face. The deep scowl didn't leave my face until we were on Snake Road. It was named appropriately for its sharp curves and rollercoaster-like hills. I felt like I was in another dimension, and I didn't even mind when we passed the turn for the ice cream shop. My personal satisfaction with the outcome of the day, and the fact that I was headed home, was enough. We changed churches a few times before we eventually stopped going, but I was certainly not forgotten at St. Anne's.