What a perfect May morning this is, one where I imagine he would have risen before us, fixed his coffee, and gone out into his garden. He would have stood upon his mount and watered the rows, sorting his head for the day. How will we now plant the vegetable garden? How will we thin the rows? My children knew his love and so did I, always unwavering, always trained upon us. But oh, to have had a chance to say goodbye, to tell him again.
Why did I speak as I did at his fiftieth birthday? I said goodbye.
Why did he buy the lottery ticket with my name on it? Why was he so angry when he lost?
Why was the studio left so tidy?
I run into Father Peter in Whole Foods, which strikes me as a line in a joke: A priest in a T-shirt and a Yankees cap is pushing a grocery cart in Whole Foods. “I thought God brought you your food,” I say, and we laughed. He married us, christened both children, and preached Ficre’s soul to the other side in Saint Barbara church. He always made space for us as outsiders to the flock, as I was not raised Orthodox, and Ficre was a skeptic whose childhood church-going was a part of the cherished memories of his community upbringing, but not a religious practice he wished to continue in adulthood.
Who was the saint who attracted birds? I ask Father Peter.
He answers, Saint Francis, who spread his arms like wings and a flock of birds landed there, doves, larks, sparrows, and owls. A crowd gathered and though they spoke many different languages, they all understood him. Saint Francis spoke Italian, but each of the listeners heard the Sermon of the Birds in their own language. Each bird repeated the words Saint Francis uttered, but each bird spoke in a different language so each listener could understand.
Yes, I say, that’s right, and I tell him a story from our family:
One day we all went to the chickadee forest in Cape Cod. I wasn’t too excited; I’m a city girl and don’t want birds coming close to me. As we wended deeper into the woods, Simon suddenly stood still on the path—he was only five—and stretched out his arms. Chickadees came and lit all over him, on his arms, on his shoulders, on his head. He stood very still and smiled, for what felt like a very long time, and the birds chittered in the quiet wood.
Then I told Father Peter how Simon had described heaven, having seen his father there.
Father Peter said, You and Ficre were blessed to be artists who take in the world that way, and so your closeness was sanctified. And your children were blessed to have you as parents. And your sons will always be blessed to have had their father. That will never change.
Then he said, Don’t ever let anyone guilt-trip you, or tamper with what you know of your sacred love.
We hug, and I leave without buying anything, having received the sermon I clearly needed. So what if I didn’t buy food, I thought. We’ll eat cereal for dinner tonight! I feel fully in possession of Father Peter’s words. The ones that shimmer I repeat to myself: sacred love.