“You need to cover your shoulders in church, hun.”

My mom draped the light pink shawl over me, resting her hand on my shoulders as we locked eyes in the mirror. Her eyebrows turned upwards ever so slightly in pity that I couldn’t quite place.

I clopped towards the car in my heels, wobbling slightly. My dad and brothers were already piled into the car. As I took my seat, my dad tapped his fingers on the wheel.

“What took you so long?”

If I told you that the church itself wasn’t heavenly, I’d be a damn liar. Gilded dark wood framed stained glass, which reflected the soft light of candles and the harsher chandeliers. Rows upon rows of vessels for voices, about two hundred people, letting go their echoes to fly and fill the cathedral ceilings. And thankfully, they were slightly less dissonant than usual.

All eyes were drawn to the altar, well-lit and surrounded by fifty preteens in crimson cloaks. The bishop stood dead centre.

The echoing ceased, and his voice boomed. We stood. 

My mom nodded at something he said. My dad gazed at the stained glass. My brothers shuffled their feet.

Just ahead of me, through a gap in the crowded pews, I spotted a girl about my age. Or rather, I spotted her long, dark curls draped down her back, and her blue dress, and the way she swayed with the rhythm of the words that bounced off the walls and amongst the crowd. An older man with barely-there grey hair placed a hand securely on her shoulder. She wasn’t wearing a shawl.

The bishop said something about fire. I can’t remember exactly what, but at that moment I remember the flames of the candles burning higher, above the rims of their red containers, as if the spirits of the dead for whom they were lit were possessing them. I saw the flames depart from the wax, flying upwards, tiny glowing orbs framing the altar. They swirled round and round, soon floating towards the crowd. One landed on my head, and another on hers. The rest stayed in the air, hanging. No one else noticed

I fixated on her flame. It bobbed, lowering as she kneeled and rising as she stood. I could feel the heat of my own flame following along.

The kids in crimson lined up to receive their blessing, and each row of guests followed. I was nowhere near her. I took the wafer and crossed myself. I scanned ahead as I walked back towards my seat, and there she was, back at hers, still lit by the flame. I finally saw her face. She looked a bit older than I had imagined.

The service was soon over. My family gathered in the church’s grand entrance, shaking hands and exchanging kisses. My cousin, clad in crimson, emerged from the back of the church to gather her deserved praise. 

I spotted the girl and her flame as she embraced one of the other robed kids. They laughed together.

My mom ushered me out of the church along with the rest of my family. Her shawl was crooked.

“Not everyone was wearing these, you know,” I commented as I attempted to adjust hers. The clip-clop of her heels paused, and she looked at me. 

She sighed and continued walking; her heels struck the pavement once again. She shot a glance at my dad.

“It’s just the proper thing to do, honey.”