Black leather book with gold leafed pages and print on face and spine of same, though not a Bible, she knew it was religious.
He read it every day to start his mornings, bookmark’s move one page to the next in procession of the year while many others stood in places of its bind.
She’d never opened, never read, only observed him as he did.
In house in the trees, morning shade of hackberry leaf and limbs and breaking of the low sunlight, she watched him read in small of island place, her body’s rest and lean to heirloom stove in corner of the room.
From page, his eyes and attention rose in smile and meet to hers.
Perceiving interest, he pushed the book across on island in offering to her, place and page still opened to morning’s read.
“I’ve always wondered what it was,” she spoke.
“It’s a Missal,” he spoke.
“And what is that?”
“It’s a Book that contains the readings for every Mass, for every day, of the Catholic cycle: three-year cycle for Sundays, two-year cycle for daily masses. It has pages, too, to help with common prayers, reflections, and special Masses for Saints and Feast Days of the Catholic year.”
“That’s a lot.”
“It is,” his smile remaining emanant of his peace, “but one day at a time, it doesn’t feel to much, but just enough.
She met him in the island light, room yellow-gold in its morning hour. Finger ran on edge of the gold leafed pages. Open page to the daily mass was turned. Bookmark to bookmark, small torn shards of paper marking places in the thick-paged volume, she observed what was marked and saved: “How to be a Better Catholic,” “Basic Prayers,” “Stations of the Cross,” “Structure of the Rosary,” “The Joyful Mysteries,” “The Memorare…”
The largest bookmark, saved and unmoved for two Decembers, “DECEMBER 8: The Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary.”
Something changed in his smile and rouge of blush shone beneath and through dark of his summer skin, and she wondered what it meant.
“It’s the day the Church celebrates the conception of Mary, conceived without sin…We are a religion filled of romance and ideals…”
“Why is it saved?”
“It just is…”
A quiet fell, not of unrest but of further peace as sunlight filled room and space between.
“There’s a lot I don’t know, but much I suspect, and the idealist of me believes God reuses special dates and days for repetition and communication of certain miracles.”
She did not understand but listened as he sought to communicate and make clear a thought.
I just thought, it is a special day in honor of woman who’s answer to God changed and saved mankind forever. Why shouldn’t it happen again…”
Quiet again, and then meek laugh as he looked to the light through small of window over kitchen sink.
“There’s much I don’t know, and much I suspect, discern to be near if not wholly true…and I thought, why shouldn’t a child be born, or conceived, on signal of the day to save mankind—or a single soul?…”
Daughter slept in other room, nearing to a year.
“Why shouldn’t a child lead a soul to God—when made witness to the miracle they are?
I just thought, if we stay where we are, what schools are it she’ll go to? Public, private? If private, what is near?
The answer is Catholic…even if irreligious. Wanting best for child brings one back to God in infinite and roundabout ways.
And should she go, and should she learn, may she not, too, teach and inspire within family and home?
And giving chance, perhaps closed heart might find and see wholly the beauty and inspiration of the Truth?
It is years ahead…but not that far, and part of me believes it will be so: conceived of love, without trace of sin, pure-heart of a daughter born for salvation of mankind—or single soul.
There is much I don’t know, but much I suspect. I share as I’m inspired to speak…”
Strand of hair fell before her eyes, and she wiped it light away. Sunlight caught to their ribbon-gold threaded amongst the green.
Outside, wind blew and windchimes rang in announcing of a presence. Leaves and cast of tree limb waved dazzling room in dance of light.
She kissed him of a love, sincere and true, as Book held open to the page.
