Belonging The sun filtered through woven straw hats, decorating the cement with bright spots. The sound of the soles of dress shoes pattered against the ground. Lined up in pairs, little figures in plaid skirts walked forwards, hand in hand. Some of them clasped cans in their hands whilst others held small bags filled with coins. I gripped my own can of tomato beans tightly, my fingers slightly scrunching the label that contoured it. My walking buddy tugged at my hand and broke into a run towards the front of the line. It was a typical Thursday morning at my school in New Zealand. At the ring of the bell, everyone would gather at the entrance of the classroom, trying to wrestle the large cylinders out of their pockets. It was a tradition to go to church every Thursday, people often bought along canned food or donations voluntarily. Wiping my sweaty palm on my skirt, I looked around. Outside, the blue sky featured puffy, cauliflower-shaped clouds bunched together in large masses. It almost looked like they were hiding something behind them; my friends and I liked to think that there was a floating island in the sky.
My shoes
clacked on the stone staircase leading up to the entrance of the church where the thick wooden doors stood open wide. Before entering the chapel, we deposited our offerings on a side table filled with cans and Ziplock bags filled with coins from the previous grade. As I crossed the threshold, my eyes were caught by the web of kaleidoscopic light reflected through the stained-glass and resting solemnly on the pews 14
