Kyrie Eleison

Stepping into the dim interior of the church from the glare of bright sunlit sidewalk, Paul pauses a moment to let his eyes adjust. Even before he can see clearly, the familiar sound of the softly playing organ and the lingering smell of incense greet him and remind him of earlier visits.

His eyes adjust, and he crosses the narthex with its pamphlets, hymnals and donation box.  One of last Sunday’s bulletins lies crumpled on the floor. As he enters the nave of the church through the large ornate double doors, years of programming push Paul’s right hand out to seek the holy water font.  The touch of the cool water on his fingertips brings him back to the present, and as if he'd been scorched by the water, he pulls his hand back and shoves it into his pocket. 

Paul spots an open space at the end of a pew near the back of the church, and takes a seat, genuflecting before he does. Old habits die hard.  He leans back to wait,  his eyes taking in the vast space before him, and once again he is carried back. 

His first memories of being here, the only good ones, are filled with color.  His mother often brought him along when she came to St. Jude's for her First Friday novenas or Stations of the Cross.  He'd been enthralled by the magnificent windows.  As it did now, sunlight streamed in through those tall, jewel-like panes and turned the church into a kaleidoscope like the one he had at home.

Though Dr. Abramson had urged Paul to come back, he just couldn't bring himself to return until last week.  The memory of  that visit was filled with color, too. 

The rows of church pews are nearly completely filled with mourners dressed in dark, somber clothes.  The organ plays accompaniment to the soft sounds of weeping.  Every now and then, he catches the murmurs of the people seated around him.  "Such a tragedy.  Who would do such a thing?"  Father Benedict had been beloved by the faithful.  Most of them, anyway.  The flowers filling the front of the church are testimony to that.

Paul hears the doors behind open.  As the liturgical music swells, filling the church with mournful sound, he watches the pall bearers solemnly escort the white and gold satin-draped casket down the long aisle to the altar.  After they have taken their seats, the priest raises his hands toward heaven and begins to lead the congregation in prayer.

Absolve, Domine,

animas omnium fidelium

ab omni vinculo delictorum

et gratia tua illis succurente

mereantur evadere iudicium ultionis,

et lucis æternae beatitudine perfrui.

Forgive, O Lord,

the souls of all the faithful

from all the chains of their sins

and by the aid to them of your grace

may they deserve to avoid the judgment of revenge,

and enjoy the blessedness of everlasting light.

Too late for that, Paul thinks.  Still, it might not hurt to go to confession when all this is over.  

He hasn't been since he was a kid, but he can picture kneeling in the dark confessional, whispering through the little screened window in front of him.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.  It has been thirty years since my last confession.

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This was written for The Tenth Daughter of Memory, where the prompt is “Softly-Spoken Bullets; Hardly-Spoken Lips."