After many years of roaming, I have come home to where I was born and raised. Much has changed in fifty years, but the town I grew up in back in the forties and fifties and the people I knew still exist in the back roads of my mind. If the sun shines just right and if I squint just so, they’re there, smiling and waving me home.
I miss the traditions and liturgy I grew up in. It was who I was in the forties and fifties. I walk in St. Mary’s cemetery and read the names of my childhood engraved in stone. The smell of incense transports me back to those many years as an altar boy. I learned the mass in Latin, my part and the priests from repetition.
I miss the quiet peace and solitude I found in a visit to the church. I miss the back pew where my mother sat for so many years. If I look close, I can see her when the light through the stained glass falls just right. She’s there watching and smiling for she knows I will find my way home.