how not to take communion

it had been awhile since i'd gone. since i'd taken the sacrament. the line moves slowly, the faces revealing whether they'd come out of duty or out of faith. i approach; my turn. a massacred loaf of bread at the center of the altar, where the preacher stood, hands raised; a chalice of juice in the middle (for the young in age and young in rebellion), a chalice of wine on the outer edge of the altar. nothing but white space between myself and the elements, i approach. i rip a corner from the bread, using my right hand to steady the loaf as i tear. i then dip it into the wine. "shit." it comes out. i dare not make eye contact with the pastor, i seek not confirmation that he heard. the bread floats limply in the holy blood, and for a moment i wonder whether i should dip my hand into the chalice and fish it out. i opt for a cleaner version, and try with another piece. so there it is, at the altar of redemption and salvation, as i take the elements, i let some less than wholesome speak slip out of my mouth. i suppose the forgiveness comes in the imbibing, in the swallowing. and so that is what i did as i walked solemnly back to my pew.