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We pull up to this stadium called a church. I swear there are more parking spaces here than the basketball arena downtown. It is so big they have police officers and parking attendants directing traffic. There are even letters on the scattered light poles so you can remember where you parked. I look at Nahlia, “Are you sure we are going to a church?”
“Mom, stop being silly.” The attendant directs us down row five of section ‘L.’ As we drive around, I notice all kinds of cars: Range Rovers, Maseratis, Hondas and hoopties. Most of the expensive cars are parked in reserved spaces. “Mom, you’ve driven most of these cars.” There is so much I could say that nothing comes out. I just join her in laughter. We park in the last spot at the end of the row.
As I slam the rusty door shut, Nahlia says, “See, mom, we are dressed just fine for church.” She is right. The woman pushing the stroller is about Nahlia’s height and looks like she might be just a few years older. Her miniskirt has so much thigh showing that I could have worn it on stage any night. I just moan to myself, as I take Nahlia’s hand and grip it tightly.