On a day in New York with late April sun through a large alder tree. It was my secret tucked behind a tall row of shrubs. A patch of green for the hour; only a divider away from footsteps and bits of conversations that brushed past me and the leaves.

Whenever there was a breeze and a beam of unrelenting sun, I wanted the whole sky to consume me right then and there. When the soil was damp, I’d use an old notebook to sit on and sink a little, dip my face into the sunlight. While walking past the bed of grass outside the neighborhood church, I’d often hear a whisper: Won’t you miss that spot? The hedges in bloom. That small black gate that opened to a garden for remembering to breathe.

Do you remember the last time you looked up in awe? It was the ceiling of a gold-laced cathedral my father took me to. Gazing, I could only think of how much space up there was reserved for gods and rumors. I’d peer in each time I walked past and flirt with infinity. But I never liked being told I had sins.

From memory, church was a place with rules, and I was “disobedient,” Father would say. But I was only bored and uninspired. My siblings and I would ask: “Daddy, when do we getta eat the holy bread?” and kick each other’s feet. I remember the sound of our small rubber sneakers hitting the wooden benches and the echoes of it bounce too. My father would snap his head “that’s enough,” start counting “that’s four,” “that’s five” with a hardened look in his eyes. The number was the amount of spankings before bed, and my siblings and I, buckled in, would compete on the car ride home—lowest score from Dad wins.

Looking back now, it’s remarkable my parents kept track of us. There were six of us children just running, running. However, last week, my Grandma giggled and told me that my dad knew she had exactly twenty-eight clocks in her home. “Your dad said to me, Mom, do you know you have exactly twenty-eight clocks?”

I don’t remember the prayers from those days. I don’t find myself walking in line with hands cupped before an altar, so the dewed grass outside today is my private pew, and it is exactly right.