Sometimes, when I fold a towel,
or smooth a napkin's crease,
or guide the nose of an iron along a cotton sleeve,
I imagine I am a Catholic priest—
folding white linen at the communion table.

I have one napkin,
used only to line the bread basket.
It’s nothing special—except to me.
And every time I fold it,
I think of the ritual.
Always.
No exaggeration.

Communion dazzles me.
Not with spectacle—
but with stillness,
with repetition.

The priest moves through his ceremony
as he has so many times before.
He swirls the water, the wine—
a quiet bartender at a holy bar.
A fast-food worker assembling another Big Mac.
A lab tech preparing another sample.
Always the same.
Always different.
Always holy.

He is housekeeper, host,
servant, celebrant.
Altar boys by his side.
People cupping hands,
tongues extended,
eyes closed.
Some sip the wine.
Some pass.
Some come with crossed arms,
asking only for a blessing.

We come forward like birds—
reaching for a scrap of bread.
It is enough.

Then, he clears the table.
Folds the cloth.
Wipes the rim of the chalice.
Sits, just for a moment.

And then he rises.
And sends us out—

"Go in peace,
to love and serve the Lord."