Philnensia

I think 1982 is a good year to die. My body is all swollen. My lungs may as well be breathing in shards of glass. I am in constant excruciating pain. My God, thank God this will soon end. The waking moments wherein this Luis fought alongside American GI’s against the Imperial Army in the jungles of Bikol, my memorable first dance with Pergentina, or my promotions at the Tariff Commission have come to this. I am drifting in and out of consciousness, but these hours are all the more precious for me, and this eight-year-old boy beside me. My son, who is oblivious of the cancer cells consuming me, is the only one who has made me so happy in these my last days.

All my children and even my wife have more and more left me alone in this room. I hold no bitterness. Humans don’t feel easy around a terminally ill person. I reckon they could not bear seeing my pain as I am committed to this rattan bed, the smell of sickness all around. All kept away as much as possible, except perhaps my favorite daughter, Sima. But it was my son who really lay beside me more than the others.

I remember when he would stay up late at night just to wait for me arriving from work. He would take off my smelly socks and bring me my slippers, looking up to me with my own round brown eyes on his face, smiling like a cherub. I also remember when he dropped his spoon and fork when I suddenly bellowed at him for holding his utensils the wrong way. Yet unfortunately, my time with him was too few and far between. It’s too late to change that.

He touches my hand with his small fingers as he sits across me. Silently, he looks into my eyes, waiting for me to get well so that we can visit again the Manila Zoo. He has learned to operate the Sony cassette player beside the bed to play for me Stardust Melody, Tennessee Waltz, and Green Green Grass of Home, melodies that calmed me after the war.

My son climbs up my bed and snuggles close to me. He seems not to smell the last aromas of necrotic tissues around my chest. Here he is, smiling in his sleep. I can’t even wipe off the tears flowing down my cheeks, knowing very, very well that I will not be there for him as he grows up. I had written his aunt Honey in America to take care of his studies when I’m gone.

Let me hug you one last time, son. I love you. I love your mother, brothers, and sisters. You have made me the proudest father ever. Goodbye. I will still watch over you. I can’t leave you.

You may not know me, your father, completely, but I will know you very well.
© 2007 Tom Navarro wordpress.com

As I sat inside the confessional, I’ve always perceived the silence as God’s presence. Now, staccato steps of Giorgio Brutini soles slapped the cross patterned tiles, bouncing up the church’s parabolic vaults, mildly inserting their expensive echoes through the latticework screen.

Moments later, the adjacent door opened and in came Michael. I was expecting him. I read the papers this morning in the rectory. He must’ve slammed the door but the cushion of air within softened it to a courteous thud.

“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.” He stuck his lips to the dust encrusted partition, filling my space with his rapid fire
New York accent. Very Gandolfini.

“Why Michael?” I questioned him, holding my breath.

“Oh, Brian. I mean, father. I’m here to confess.”

“I know. But why, why her? She’s not one of your ‘jobs’.”

“So you know already. That means I don’t have to tell ya. Can I get my absolution now? Whaddaya holdin’ there?” He saw me moving my arm as I placed my hand in my cassock pocket. Even when we were kids Michael was always a bit paranoid. Now, he had reason to.

I extemporized, “I can’t give you the absolution you seek, brother. You have gone too far with this.” The skidding of several pairs of booths resounded from the aisles. I slid close my shutter and unceremoniously exited from my box. Three agents were already poised outside Michael’s exit.

“Guess I have to find me another priest then.” He came out, making the sign with slashes in the air, and almost ran back into the cubicle. They cuffed him, as they would on the street. They brandished the warrant and told him his rights. All standard procedure in a house of God. They marched him farther from me.

“My boss will bail me out, Brian.” I wondered which boss that was. The steadiness in his voice was way too confident. Two agents made him move along, snapping back his countenance towards the dimly lit arch flanked by two mute angels offering clam shells of holy water, the night flowing into the church like a benediction.

“You will regret this, father Brian O’ Keefe.” Michael’s voice was like that of a convict escorted out of the courtroom after the verdict was announced, the serenity of my dear old church shattered forever. An agent remained.

“You did the right thing, father,” he twanged, an Alabama import in
New York. Amazing how crosspollination of secular culture occurs. I pulled out the cell phone he gave me, took his hand, his eyebrows appearing above his tinted glasses, and placed the gadget there. He probably never expected I’d return it in return for my cooperation. I turned around without uttering a blessing.

A young woman in a cashmere sweatshirt and faded blue jeans was waiting for me at the confessional. Nodding toward her, she opened the narrow door and sat inside. I came into my usual place, closed my door to the outside world, and reopened my side of the partition.

“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.”

“When was your last confession, child?”

© 2007 Tom Navarro wordpress