Monday, August 29, 2011
Annunciata
There is a story from Rome
in the sixteen hundreds
about the church of our lady
of fertility;
a small parish church, where
desperate women
who were advanced in age
and still without children
went to pray,
to the priest,
Father Giacomo.
They’d come furtively
to the confessional box
just before the closing
for Sext
at lunchtime.
Father Giacomo
heard their confessions
and when they told him
they were still
childless.
He asked them to wait
in the sacristy.
“My daughter
if you really want
a bambino, you will accept
the intercession
of the Holy Mother Church.”
The cowed, veiled women
shuffled in awe
into the priest’s
backroom.
He showed them
a chair by the table,
and poured them
a goblet of altar wine.
They refused, but Father Giacomo
insisted.
“Drink, my child.
I will be gone for a moment.
Please pray so that your family
will blessed
with a son
or a daughter.
Do not be afraid. Remember
Saint Elizabeth. Pray to her.
And please drink.
We needn’t tell anyone.”
Father Giacomo
kissed their heads,
as they clumsily sipped
the wine:
with tears in their eyes.
And he left.
After a few fearful minutes the Lord
must have sent an angel
to comfort them
because they all soon fell asleep.
And dreamt a dream
that made them sing:
a beautiful cherub, with chocolate ringlets
and sad, sad eyes
flew into their arms
from out of the flowers
sown in the carpet.
A feeling
like heaven.
And when they finally awoke,
Father Giacomo would cup
their reddened cheeks
with his soft,
warm hands.
“My daughter, you have slept.
I told you to pray.
But never mind. May the Lord
grant your wish
to become a whole woman.
To be a mother”.
And he would lead them out
into the afternoon sun, always
crying and grateful that someone
had touched them.
Now, this had gone on
for over ten years.
Every so often, the priest
was seen
guiding a woman,
blinded by the light
out into the piazza dell’annunciata.
Week after week,
Year after year.
And though you wouldn’t call it
(as all births are miracles)
the women (but not everyone) soon
fell pregnant.
And the happy families
would take their carts
full of meat, fish and vegetables
as an offering
to the church
on the day of the birth.
They would sing, with their friends,
and dance in the piazza
around their little carts.
The new fathers drunk,
and the midwives
bloody-aproned and sweating
with a good job
well accomplished.
And Father Giacomo
embarrassed but happy
would insist that it had been the work
of divine intercession.
Of Saint Elizabeth. The Virgin Mary.
And that next week
he would say a mass
for thanksgiving.
That night there would be joy
and music in the households.
Men would admire
the shy husband.
Women would gather
at the bed
of the mother
and child: a boy or a girl
with sad, sad eyes
feasting at the breast:
a feeling like heaven.
The young girls
nodding off
at the edge of the bed.
Even the priest
would partake of some wine
with the blessed
and happy families
before heading back
to the presbytery.
to lock the church,
extinguish the candles,
and chase out the dogs.
Before going to bed,
He would take a few morsels
of pork
to the cellar,
for his little friend,
with the chocolate ringlets,
and too-big tongue,
and oriental eyes,
“Grazie, padre.
ho molto fame.”
“I know, Ugolino.
And perhaps tomorrow
we will feast again.”
Father Giacomo finally died
and the church
burned down
one Saint John’s eve,
when some boys had been trying
to steal the wine.
A scuffle was heard;
the cellar caught fire.
But the little parish
blossomed,
the guilds were booming
and the children
survived
more than the average.
They re-built the church
and it was consecrated
to Saint Elizabeth.
The old , pregnant woman
who bore John the Baptist.
Whose head was cut-off
and given to Salome.
“These dark, chocolate ringlets.
These sad, sad eyes.”
// posted by George Manka @ 9:12 AM 
Comments:
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# posted by 
: 6:42 AM
: 6:42 AM
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# posted by : 8:43 AM
: 8:43 AM << Home
