In the early hours of May twenty-fifth, when the tender Spring sun begins its pull through the morning sky and the light starts kissing away the frost from all those blades of grass on the highlands and the daffodils in the town as well, a priest hangs.
His cassock delights in the movement from the northern winds as they tempt the man into a dance. Gently, with the breeze, he sways. And the tips of his buffed brogues brush the hardwood floor. And the beads of his rosary whisper amongst themselves. And the fibers of the rope sigh while he performs silently to an audience of idols and saints.
The poor priest. A holy metronome.
His mortal sin is cut short by a blade the priest once used to open contracts and letters from below and above. Those monthly obligations and temporal affairs he dealt with in a timely manner. And all those lovely letters from his congregation that he took great care when replying to. Like the thank-you note sent by a very young girl who particularly enjoyed his sermon at her father’s funeral and so appreciated how he held her little hand while her Mother gathered the family’s respects.
When his body falls to the ground it’s with a thunder and then a gasp. The priest feels life flood over him as a sudden, burning shame. His eyes begin to focus on his nose, which he always found rather small, until they adjust on…
