Читать книгу Breathing Space - Harold J. Recinos - Страница 22

his mother lit a candle every night

before the image of the Holy Lady

of God to keep him safe. the still figure

on the altar listened to prayers of supplication

without end not saying a single word

and her exquisitely sad eyes knew there

was very little for her to do. for him the

day without blessing came speaking in

fluent curses on Walton Avenue and a

sickness ended his tender life. he was

with us for two decades aching for other

things, rejecting the idea that hope was

an empty house, in love with candle holders

in the local Catholic church, the comforting

presence of sisters and priests, and the solemn

ceremonies of Mass—it was swept away on a

South Bronx night. the mother still lives in the

same old tenement, more wrinkled and bent after

so many years, slowly she still kneels in front of

the icon of the Holy Lady where a candle still

burns to brighten up her small room. she gives

thanks to spite her weary days on earth, while

old impatient tears slide down her face singing

on the way to the linoleum covered floor: your

boy with the elegant brown eyes paces inside

the heavenly gate reciting Spanglish prayers for

you.