“May the light of day be with you,” Father Thomas said and made the sign of the cross on Aaron’s forehead. Aaron felt his heart still and his pulse subside. The dull weight in the pit of his stomach eased up, and he felt his dry mouth ebb, ever so slightly.
“Father, thank you for the blessing,” Aaron said. He wasn’t even Catholic – raised Jewish by his long-gone parents, who’d both have fits if they knew their son had consulted with a priest. And not just any priest, but an Irish Catholic priest. Ida and Harold would scream in agony at the betrayal. Oy vey.
Aaron sat back in the pew and looked at the priest, his double chin resting on his clerical collar. The eyes were soft, but penetrated right into Aaron, as if he saw every facet of his person – the good and the bad, the strong and the weak. But Aaron didn’t feel discomfort in the lengthy gaze. He felt his pulse slow even further, and a tingling sensation surrounded his scalp, as if a phantom were secretively massaging his scalp.
Oh, how he missed Marty now – just the thought of his warm hands running through Aaron’s hair, massaging the scalp while they watched old reruns of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. If only he hadn’t met Luis after their falling out, he might be alive today. But no – we can’t turn back the clock.
“Where will you go next, young man?” the priest said.
Aaron didn’t consider himself young any longer, not at thirty-seven, the age when youth yields to middle age, half of seventy-five. Not when he’d just lost his lover of a dozen years, the man he never had the chance to reconnect with. And here stood this priest, his eyes like two soft candles, looking after him, calling him a young man. If only he knew.
But Aaron looked in the eyes again and realized, he knew everything.
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