Today is Ash Wednesday, and I haven’t seen the sun in months. Last night, my roommate and I rode the green line down to the North End, taking our turns onto Hanover and Salem, breathing

in sharp air and expelling with thick puff puff puffs. We gorged on chicken parmesan and

cannolis until oils stained our lips, cheeks, and hems. A woman walked by, took one look at us,

and asked if she needed to get us paper towels. On the other side of the street a homeless man

begged for respite. We walked on, still.

       I look up from the t-stop, now, dead on this gray winter day. An old man on his way to

Government Center bears his cross. Mass has let out. Father. Son. Holy Spirit. Ash decorates the

foreheads of almost every passerby. They walk in gaggles and dig their elbows into each other's

sides. They dodge the slush and salt. One pulls another away from the ice. I look on in surprise. I

thought faith was something we all pretended to rebuke, something that came gripping in the

quiet blanket of the night or a cold walk home. I didn’t know it could be worn so proudly. The

thought becomes so forceful I can’t help but laugh. The old man on my cart looks at me cross. I

look through him and imagine its Jesus is on the train. The girl next to me bears a cross too, a

thick black smudge that cuts across her face, making sections, almost angry. She rests her head

against the glass, eyes closed, soft smile. I wonder if she’s praying. I wonder if she’s thinking

about what she ate for lunch.

       On the train ride home from our fill my roommate asked me what I’m giving up for Lent.

I didn’t know that’s what Fat Tuesday was for; a final act of excess before fast. I tell her we don’t

need to be so Catholic about it. I tell her I don’t measure my pleasure in feats of guilt and

penance. Sometimes pleasure is pleasure, and only that. She laughs, and when I get home I stand

in the mirror and pinch my hips. I try not to eat. Instead I dance, and convince myself that it’s

liberation. For my final act of excess, I call my friend Izzy and pretend she’s God.