by Kristin Distel Arnab Dey A crumb of the communion wafer I shouldn’t have taken wedged itself in the crevices of my molar. Shunted between the uplifted hands of my father and grandmother, I tried to sing along— holy, holy, holy Lord, God Almighty, early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee —but the words vaporized in my mouth, my tongue a rushlight. Between verses, I slipped out of the beachside tabernacle and stepped into the murky lake water with my church shoes sti