Confessional

by Sophie Matano

Why do Priests have to be so cheerful? Whenever I walk through the doors of a church one is always there to greet me. He puts his hands together and bows them to me and says “welcome sister,” or “we’re so glad to see you.” I never know what to say back. “Glad to be here,” would be a lie, and they would know right away because God would probably tell them, and the honest answer (“thanks, but you shouldn’t expect me back anytime soon because my dad decided to be religious just for today since it’s Christmas/Easter”) probably wouldn’t sit well with them either. In the moment I always mutter something completely ridiculous, and in my nervous frenzy I call them a title other than “Father.” The last time I went to church I’m pretty sure I said “merry Christmas, Your Honor.”

But what brought me to church this day was different.

My cousin’s father died.

Don’t think I’m not sympathetic – I am. No seventeen year old boy should lose his father, and I’m terribly sorry for my cousin’s loss, but I am almost unaffected by the ordeal.

My cousin would probably be my 4^th or 5^th cousin, since my grandmother and his great-grandmother were somehow related, but I’ve never tried to do the math. His parents divorced when we were about 4 years old, and I hadn’t seen his father since.

My cousin Charlie is a senior in high school and I enjoy asking people we mutually know how he is and what he’s like now. When I think of him, I see a small curly haired sever year old boy aiming plastic balls at my head from the ball pit at Chuck E Cheese. Apparently this image is no longer accurate.

So, although I am not incredibly close to my cousin currently, I used to be. Even though I hadn’t seen his father Charles Sr. in over a decade, I went to the memorial service for his father out of love and support. Even if it meant humiliating myself in a church, I would gladly accept God’s mockery to be there for my cousin.

I’m supposed to be Roman Catholic; I was baptized, but to be fair, I was a baby; I didn’t have much say in the matter. I feel like I signed a contract with God with my baby hands while my parents held the pen. He’s probably not psyched about my Agnosticism, so I feel guilty every time I step into a church. And this time was no exception.

We walked in shyly. Standing in the narthex we gathered our strength and proceeded into the nave. I recalled from past years of being forced to go to church that one was supposed to bow and cross yourself in respect at the nave since the altar was open to it. As a reflex my back and knees started to bend.

Bow down, cross from left to right…what kind of church is this?

I hesitated and looked around, as if there would be a light up sign reading “Welcome to the Protestant Church!”

Do different kinds of churches do this differently? This is what Roman Catholics are supposed to do…Shit, Charlie isn’t Roman Catholic. Shit – sorry for cursing, God. Oh Jesus.

A priest walked through the nave and smiled at the clearly mentally challenged girl frozen in front of him partially stooped over. I smiled and straightened up slowly. I chose a bench near the back since the church was quite packed. With strangers.

I craned my neck, trying to find Charlie or his mom, but all I could see were Colonel Mustard and Doc from Back To The Future having a conversation about how they both knew Charles Sr.

“We lived together briefly in Santa Barbara,” the Colonel said, adjusting his glasses with one hand and itching at his muttonchops with the other

“That must have been before he joined the Peace Core. We met in Puerto Rico,” Doc sighed. He noticed me staring and smiled a toothy grin. The corners of my mouth turned upward into what I hoped passed as a smile. He extended a hand to me. My fingers twitched toward his to go for a handshake, but his palm was up. In movies when men do this they are usually going to kiss a woman’s hand while she would shield her blushing cheeks with a lace fan. That would be completely ridiculous. I don’t have a fan, anyway.

I stared at his upturned palm, unsure what to do. Doc noticed by hesitance and to make the situation less awkward, put his hand on my head.

“Hang in there, kiddo,” he smiled sadly, “we all miss Charlie.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Oh, yeah?”

He looked so disappointed.

For all I know, this could be his best friend. His best friend in the entire world died, and all I could say is “oh, yeah.”

“I just…have so many great memories of Charlie,” I continued. Doc took his hand off my head and Colonel directed his attention to me.

“Oh, so do I!”

“Charles, what a character!”

“You’re telling me! He told such terrible jokes,” Doc laughed heartily. “Oh, they were awful. And he would always laugh at them himself.”

Then I had two white haired men laughing hysterically in front of me. This drew some attention to us and people turned in their seats. Some glared at me though the glassy tears in their eyes. This was a time for mourning. How dare you laugh.

I suddenly became fascinated with the Bible on the back of the bench in front of mine.

Music from the organ swelled and a procession of elderly robed people waltzed down through the nave with faux candles. When the reached the altar one got up to a microphone and began reading a psalm while I sat obediently and watched. At the end of the psalm the priest asked us to stand and be seated and then stand again while we repeated things back to him in the most monotonous voice we could muster. He then greeted us and thanked us for coming to celebrate the life of Charles Sr. Now was the time specific friends and members of Charles Sr.’s family made speeches. My cousin’s mother Sasha was last to speak. Finally, a familiar face!

Sasha spoke of how genial Charles Sr. was and how much he loved their son even though their love didn’t last. Sasha stiffly spoke of Charles Sr.’s remarriage.

“Charles and Barry loved each other very much, and they were more than happy to provide a second home for my Charlie,” she cooed.

Barry?

I leaned sideways toward my mother while keeping my eyes on Sasha. “Barry? Like the man’s name Barry?”

No wonder their marriage didn’t work.

“No, Barry is his wife.”

“Who would name a woman…” I turned my head to look at my mother. Not my mother.

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

The confused woman pointed to a small woman in green. “There she is.”

She was slightly familiar. I recognized the hair, at any rate. It sprang out in tight curls over her head, and the delicate clip attempting to control it was loosing the battle. I leaned toward my mother, double-checking to see if I was leaning in the correct direction, and asked if we knew Barry.

“Of course, she was your daycare teacher.”

“What?” I exclaimed a little too loudly.

“Shh!” my mom hushed. “That daycare you went to with Charlie.”

Well that’s scandalous.

“Please flip to hymn 41 in your hymnbooks,” the priest said soothingly. We stood and I grabbed the hymnbook. I fumbled with the pages and the music started.

“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound…” sang the woman next to me.

I know this one! Pft. Hymn 41. I closed the hymnbook smartly and put it back on the bench. While my humble rendition of Amazing Grace couldn’t compare to this woman’s vibrato, at least I knew the song.

“…that saved a wretch like me…” I sang along quietly, proud I could finally participate. Maybe church wasn’t so bad. Sure, I felt out of place, and when you’re asked to stand it’s the most painful three minutes of your life because all you want to do is sit since sitting is forbidden, but I could get past all that.

“…but now I see…”

…Oh dear God, what comes next?

“T’was Grace that taught my heart to fear…”

Oh, that’s right.

“…and Grace, my fears relieved.”

This sounds familiar…

“How precious did that Grace appear…”

…Damn, I’ve lost it.

I stood in defeat while the woman next to me belted out some operatic notes. She stole a glance at me and frowned in pity.

The memorial service drew to a close and my mother and I slowly approached our cousins. After exchanging hugs we were invited to visit Charles Sr.’s grave with them. It was hard for me to picture a more uncomfortable situation, but we accepted.

In the cemetery I read the tombstones as we passed. Some were bare except for the names and dates, some were festooned with engravings of flowers. Very few had actual flowers placed at their base. I did notice a trend: most of the tombstones had written “BELOVED SON AND FATHER,” or “DAUGHTER, MOTHER, ANGEL” on them with very little variety.

This got me started thinking on the design of my own tombstone, as morbid as that may be. It goes without saying that I am a daughter, and if I am a mother when I die it might be nice for people to know that – but there are loads of mothers. I was desperate to find something creative, as this would be my last message to the world.

It troubled me for some time. What if I died tomorrow in a dreadful car crash? My parents would have to choose the text, and I’m not sure I would want to leave this decision up to them. Running out of time, my mind was a torrent.

I thought back to antique graves where the method of death was printed on the tombstone. I suppose that wouldn’t be very tasteful in today’s society, and I’m afraid it wouldn’t be quite as exciting to read my actual cause of death, most likely cancer (we all need to just accept it), as “hanged by the neck until dead.” Maybe I could make up a more exciting one.

Then I had it.

I’m very adamant about my tombstone. I am prepared to write in my will that my loved ones get nothing of mine if they don’t print exactly what I want on it.

Poor people. Imagine having to write on grandma’s tombstone:

SOPHIA ROSE MATANO

BURIED ALIVE