GRANTED: TWO WISHES

Filomena (Phyllis) Minnitti Bilbo
e-mail: p.bilbo@mail.com


GRANTED:  TWO WISHES

by
Filomena (Phyllis) Minnitti-Bilbo

Fog embraced the weeping walls of Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church.  It was the lee of winter, the season approaching the coming of Christ.  

With each opening and closing of the heavy door, cold, followed by patches of runaway fog, found its complement inside.  Its severity lessened only slightly within Our Lady’s vestibule that betrayed a nave, dimly lit, and vigil lights that flickered reds and blues at the base of an altar presided over by an awesome statue of a Christ crucified.

Encircling cherubim were in discreet attendance, while select, time-honored saints, transfigured in stationary positions about the altar radiated an aura of comforting peace.  A pillar partially obscured the vision of a sorrowing Virgin, cradling the motionless body of her martyred son.

Out in the night, incessant and close, the sounds of a restless dog mingled with those of the quiet within.  Meanwhile, a world of unseen faces, belonging to the peoples of the world, began to dot the pews.  Only an occasional cough or shuffle betrayed their presence.

Dressed appropriately in vestments reflecting a time of rejoicing for the Christian world, the church endured resplendent silence.  Honoring flowers graced the altar before touching on favored statues as they wended their way outside the altar rail, before stopping abruptly at the center aisle.  

While poinsettia enjoyed prominence about the altar, virgin red roses, white chrysanthemums, gardenias, and carnations looked down in solemn splendor upon the obtrusion in the aisle.

Tonight, on the threshold of the eve of their golden wedding anniversary, Mama and Papa would share prominence.  Papa, having arrived earlier, preceded Mama, their five sons and five daughters and respective spouses, along with progeny numbering thirty and eight.  

Having been seated to the right of Papa, Mama waited in seemingly interminable silence for the occasion-clad Monsignor to begin his recitation of the customary, beaded ceremony.

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Though bedeviled by a small, veiled hat that sat sorely on her head, to accommodate a dark, tightly coiled switch, resembling a rattler in striking pose, Mama’s semblance of slimness in an austere costume looked nice, but Papa looked beautiful!

To say, “Papa never looked more beautiful” would be damning; for even with the aid of an elusive memory, never had Papa looked “beautiful” as a son or daughter would have had an immigrant Utah coalminer look.  Nor, for that matter, a parent, who, upon the advent of the Great Depression, moved his family to the agriculturally rich San Joaquin Valley, California, there to become an agriculturally employed parent.  Portragenic, rather then photogenic, more aptly described Papa.

Tonight, rather than his usual long, seasonal underwear, hidden for the most part by loose-fitting pants (cuffs folded once, then once again), and a frayed, faded checkered flannel shirt, unconfined by the grace of truant suspenders, Papa wore a suit elegantly blue and extravagantly tailored!

A monochromatic tie, resting softly against a starched white shirt and a white handkerchief tucked neatly in a breast pocket, rather than his usual red and white or blue and white kerchief hanging precariously from a rear pocket, called attention to a now fuller, broader chest. 

The absence of a brown felt winter hat, self-styled for summer comfort with holes scattered hither-and-yon, revealed the long forgotten luxury of a professional trim and shave.

Granted the maiden carnation adorning the niche of Papa’s lapel was unparalleled in beauty.  Still, Papa, too, was beautiful, even to the irregular bulge of his right front pocket which, if explored would have revealed the presence of a bone-stemmed pipe, a small tobacco pouch, long-stemmed matches, a can/bottle opener, and enough coins to engage the ale opener at least twice.

Hair thrice silvered and am expansive quasi-silver mustache that highlighted enviable taut, olive skin; a brisk un-mellowed soldier’s gait; a brown, opalescent gaze hallmarked Giovanni Minnitti, quasi nonagenarian.


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Rangy, unfretted, untied shoes would not prove a bone-of-contention tonight, nor would his daily sojourns to an ancient, neighboring eucalyptus tree, there to sit at its base to view life convexly and to contemplate it hazily amid great puffs of smoke and the squandered space between a tightly clenched pipe and a snugly drawn hat.  

Until tonight, Mama’s furtive entreaties of “Non mora mai su passaluno?” (“Will this old sparrow never die?”) aided by a seemingly unrelenting memory of having been an unwilling, bartered child bride, like a quasi-active volcano, festered and found wavering eruptions in such  entreaties; but not tonight!

Tonight, divorced by eternity, a plea shattered the nighttime stillness, obscuring all else save the still incessant, sounds of that still restless dog still seemingly intent on being heard, as Mama, rising slowly, fell compulsively on Papa, this time holding, caressing,  pleading:

“Non mi lasciare, Giova!”  (“Don’t leave me, John!”); “Mi lasci sula, n’orphana.  (You’re leaving me alone, an orphan.); “Sumati!”  (Wake up!”) “Non mi lasciare!”

Then another voice, another cry:
“Papa, you’re beautiful!  You’re beautiful, Papa!; perdounani, Papa! (Forgive us, Father!)  Perdunani.”
                
                         The End

Tags: sad, imagery,