1

Joseph Fernandez had just turned twenty five. On his birthday, he and his mother went to the church. At five o’clock in the morning, the old woman came into his room and shook him by the shoulder. “Joseph,” she said; “get up!” Then she shuffled out, leaving him to rub his eyes at the sun, which was just beginning to show itself through his window. Dressed, the two of them walked down the long street to the church. Joseph favored his game leg, the left one, the one crushed in the accident. His mother walked ahead of him, slowing every now and then and glancing over her right shoulder, as if to make sure that her son was still following after her. One never knew about that young man. Slowly, they climbed the long steps into the church, stopping briefly at the basin to dip their fingers and cross themselves, then moving silently into the body of the church. Genuflecting and crossing themselves again, they took their places in a pew, way down in front, where his mother liked to be. Joseph recalled having let his eyes run to the altar, which stood in awesome and overpowering silence behind the rail where he would soon receive that bit of Christ’s body that was his. He saw Christ hanging on His Cross, and to one side, the beautiful figure of Mary, His Mother, dressed in blue and white. It seemed to him as if She were smiling down at him. He crossed himself rapidly several times, shivering slightly, recalling the first time he had stood in the field and the Virgin had come to him in a vision. She had been smiling at him. He looked quickly sideways at his mother. Her head was bent and her lips were moving rapidly with her prayers. Wisps of grey hair had straggled loose from the bun at the back of her neck and hung by the side of her face. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but didn’t. Instead he looked back at the Virgin and became lost in Her beauty, almost feeling as though She were holding him, one of her lost ones, in Her arms. Continue reading Fernandez’ Tale