Tagger

Chapter 29 -- Picking Up the Pieces

43

Saturday mid-morning

Kimo wakened, feeling like he'd been in a tunnel without light except for the train in the distance barreling right at him. It was 9:30.

He dislodged Liz's cat, Paxel, who had attached herself to his leg, quick-walked to the bathroom, splashed tap water into his face and blurted, "I feel like shit."

Liz was snoring and sleeping fitfully on the living room couch, curled into a little ball under a beautiful knotted quilt her aunt Mary had made for her.

Kimo squatted next to her. Touching her arm, he said, "Liz, I gotta go."

She peered at him through bloodshot eyes, her mascara following the track of her tears in the early morning hours. "Where you going?"

"10:00 Mass. I need to talk to Father G. Wanna go?"

"Chalé. You tell me about it." Liz's cat jumped into her lap. "I just wanna stay here with Paxel." She waved her brother away, rolled to one side, clutching her locket and stroking her cat. Kimo heard a muffled sob as he closed the door.

****

At St. Gertrude the Great Church on Garfield, Kimo slipped into a back pew. The Romanesque church was dedicated in 1939 and seated 375. Starting with a succession of four Irish priests, Msgr. Henry Gomez moved the statue of the saint from the church's dark vestibule to the front "where people could see her." That led to the 1995 dedication of the new church seating more than a thousand members.

At 10:08, Kimo put his cell on silent, pleasing the young mother rocking her child to his immediate right. Pepe, an old man from Kimo's complex who told him a joke every time they met, waved hello from a half-empty pew two rows ahead. Kimo nodded at Pepe before gazing at the vestibule. The short service drew eighty plus parishioners. The Spanish-only service which followed would draw the day's biggest crowd.

Father Garcia and his protégé, Father Perron, wore black vestments on funeral days. Kimo closed his eyes and listened for familiar bells, smelled the incense, and felt sunlight on his face filtered through a stained-glass window.

Moving with grace for a tall man, Father Garcia at 6'3" had a receding black hairline and gray speckled beard. Most members of St. Gertrude Church were first, second, or third generation immigrants from Mexico. Saturday morning's prayer service catered to them. The good Father led off every service with a quiet gaze traveling from face to face in the pews, connecting with his flock.

"Today is the beginning of a three-day weekend," he began, "For many, this is the coming of summer and vacation time. It's important we have days like Memorial Day this Monday to bring ourselves to remembrance because we are a forgetful people. For many, forgotten is the real meaning of this coming Monday – to pray for the courageous souls who fought for what's good and just in the America we all love."

Father Garcia extended his arms, palms up, at the congregation. He closed his eyes and asked, "So, what of your personal memorial? What will people think of when they remember you? Will your kids, grandkids, or family remember you for your faith?"

Kimo's thoughts drifted to how Rob would be remembered. Rob would never have kids or grandkids, but those who loved him knew he'd always kept his faith.

The priest continued with his open-ended questions: "Will you be remembered as one who loved life in its fullness? Will loved ones remember you for knowing how to enjoy life?" These rhetorical questions led Kimo to say under his breath, "Mi carnal, Roberto, lived life to the hilt."