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We both know she doesn’t have long left on this Earth, but neither of us mentions it.
Her soul will soon be liberated, a fact she takes comfort in.
I’m glad she has the security of her faith.
In truth, being around people like her, good people, has re-instilled some of my own beliefs.
Rome, this past year, has surprised me by being a salve.
But I’m still going through the motions. The only time any of it makes sense to me is when a service ends and I walk down the aisle of pews and greet the worshippers.
It amuses me that, during my time here, numbers have increased despite the fact I fulfill more of the traditional canonical hours than ‘recommended.’
The Church doesn’t know what to make of that, and neither do I, in all honesty.
Every other parish I’ve been assigned to has ended in disaster. No one has particularly liked me, and I haven’t particularly liked anyone there.
Here, I fit.
Strangely, I’m home. Not because this is the capital of my faith but because this is my father’s homeland. I was born in my mother’s, and now I live in the land that forged Giuseppe Martin.
This is where I have roots—I’d just never been here long enough to let them take to the soil before.
I give Lara’s hands one last squeeze. “I’ll send your chauffeur for you.”
Her eyes twinkle. “Thank you.”
She refuses to walk down the aisle with her mobility aid so she uses her driver as a cane instead. Her stubbornness amuses me, especially when she sits on the front pew where her family’s name is engraved.
TheChiesadiSanta Ceciliais in her blood in a way that it isn’t in mine, yet I’ve found a home here. Some days, that’s enough.
Others, such as today, with the weight of Andrea Jura’s regard, I feel the lack.
Continuing on my path, I come across Carlo DiRittano. As usual, his expression is sheepish and he’s fidgeting under his dad’s firm hold on his shoulder.
“What did you do, Carlo?” I chide, knowing he’s here, midweek, for a reason.
The DiRittanos come every Sunday, without fail, but rarely during the week.
Carlo has ADHD and he keeps acting out, so their attendance on a Wednesday means he’s ‘misbehaved.’
“Nothing,Padre,” he mutters glumly before he stares at his feet.
His sneakers squeak over the ancient stones, and his toe digs into them, kicking a loose piece of gravel that someone has traipsed in after the cleaners came.
“He’ll be waiting to give confession,” his father promises, and I cut him a look, wanting to shake my head but refraining.
It isn’t my place to parent the boy, nor to parent the parents, but I truly do think they are too hard on him.
Coming from a man who believes sinners should pay with their lives? That says a lot.
What would you expect from a boy his age, though, when the doctors prescribe him medications and they refuse to give them to him?
Though the tut is silent, I move on, greeting worshippers whose faces I’ve come to know, whose names trip off my tongue like they’re old friends.
But as I approach the last pew, my heart pounds as if I raced down the aisle. My palms grow clammy. Perspiration dots my upper lip. And that’s nothing to…
What on earth is happening to me?