Three White Candles
Penny Jeanette Yost
Signora Carracci entered the cathedral
huddled under her loosely-woven shawl,
tugging the black wool scarf snug over her thinning gray hair.
Opaque nylons sagged around her thick ankles,
stuffed into sturdy shoes with square one inch heels.
Limping, as she did everyday,
up the center aisle,
over the tile labyrinth,
past the empty pews,
bowing with respect before the altar crucifix,
to reach, finally,
the Baroncelli Chapel tucked in the right transept.
As expected, she found the box of thin white candles,
freshly stocked each morning by Father Giovanni.
The clatter of her meager lire coins echoed
as she dropped them into the offering box
and selected three candles —
one for her husband,
one for her son,
and one for the Madonna.
In the dimly-lit interior,
illuminated only by dirt-encrusted stained glass,
she knelt on the thin hard plank;
ignoring, as she had for years,
how it cut into her shin under her weight.
Long since ignoring as well,
the chatter of tourists who point frantically
at the chapel frescoes during the one-minute flash
of the coin-operated light machines.
Concentrating instead on the flicker of the three white candles,
she knelt in silence.
And looking into the white porcelain eyes of the ceramic Madonna,
she sought solace from another who had lost a son.
After reciting three "Our Fathers",
she stood and made the sign of the cross,
before shuffling with an uneven gait,
through the shadows of the left aisle —
just as she did everyday.
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