continued
For the first time in fifteen years I enter a church. A Catholic church. Large stained glass window above the entrance. A scene of Jesus among sheep. Bent down in a field. All the reds, yellows, and blues are bolder in front of the parish lights.
I'm here for an All Soul's prayer service. The service for the dead. A celebration of those who are not. I wanted to put my name among the list. I could have done it years ago. But, I'm decided to do it now.
There is a woman, or a man, whose job it is to keep track. There is a book in the rectory that is the book of the dead. Each time a member dies, or a funeral is held, the name is entered onto the page. The line shows their name, date of birth, date of death, and address of next of kin. All the different colored ink, the different hand writing, all the faded names from ten years ago and the brighter names of last week.
I add my name to the book. It is the brightest.
I place my fingers into the blessed water. Place it to my shoulders, chest, forehead. I murmer what I remember of a prayer.
Do we return to God when we are dying? I don't know if I'd call this a return. I was never here so I can't really return. And, my ideas haven't changed. It's just the closest I have come to understanding what my body is doing. So I can't deny my mind this practice. Not this evening.
The people are scattered about the church. Filing into the pews. Kneeling, sitting, standing, praying. No one is really in unison. They are all mourning in one way or another, though.
It isn't as desperate as I remember church being. There is another feeling in the air. I can't name it. I can't call it. Or write it. Or, paint it.
The priest is an elderly man. Perhaps too old to still be speaking. Too old to still be breathing. His head is bald. Skinned. Dark patches of brown cover his hands. He eyebrows are gray and the hairs are wispy.
He reads from his Bible like we are an elementary class. He is not reading for us, he is reading to us. There is no sermon. Or, specific lesson. Just verses that he cherishes. I assume that is important. What we cherish.
I travel to my childhood too often.
My parents' house. The bathroom where I discovered my penis. Masturbating at the sink. Peeking out the window at the neighbor as he cut the grass shirtless. His chest hairs were distracting. But if it was sunny enough they were invisible.
The hole I cut in my pillow so that I could fuck it. The cotton bunched around my penis. My hands gripping the edges of the pillow and pushing it all together around my cock. Spilling into the whiteness. Emptied and tired. Resting my head against the drying cum. It disgusts even me, now. At the time it was fantastic. The feeling of release. The smell of my insides nestled under my head. I felt I knew how everything worked then.
I had a friend, one year older. Martin. He lived two blocks away. After school we walk to my house. And we take turns fucking my pillow. He thought it was a brilliant idea. We were eleven. Or, something.
One day I took it too far. As his ass was tightening for release I placed my cock against the back of his ass. He fell forward in shock.
"No." he shouted.
I didn't care what he said. I hit him. As hard as I could. He was weaker than me so it required little force. His nose was bleeding a little bit. I licked the little bit of cum off his penis that hadn't fallen off inside the pillow. He kicked against my chest with his legs.
I held him still with my hands and swallowed him. I looked up into his eyes. They were so distant and empty. It was all I needed. Having all that control. Him limp in my mouth and dying inside my bedroom.
He never came back over. Never spoke to me. But, never told anyone.
I called Maggie three days later.
"I'm sorry I left so angry," I told her.
"It's fine. I wasn't clear. And, then I just got angry. I should have been more specific about what I wanted to hear before you started your story," she said.
"Dinner at my place? I'll have wine. Something dry. Seven-ish?"
She said yes. Hung up the phone.
