"funeral requiem" - short story

Instructions

The priest makes his way hastily down the flight of marble steps. Somewhere in the distance, he hears the singing of the choir, paired with the deep melodic notes of the organ. They sing something in Latin which he cannot understand, although he could speak Latin with ease. It is the funeral of a stranger, which always brings a peculiar feeling with it, a feeling of curiosity for a life unknown brought to its inescapable end. Though there were a good number of people in attendance, as he could see as he passed them by on his way to the door, the only person who was truly distraught was a young man— not the age of the priest now, but perhaps his age when it happened— who sobbed inconsolably, his broad shoulders trembling with the effort, his punctuated shrieks of misery slicing through the evangelical humming of the choir to produce a most horrifying sound. Despite himself, tears pricked at the priest’s eyes, and he forced himself to continue. He cannot stand funerals, just as he cannot stand weddings, or ceremonies of any sort (aside, he adds, from the Eucharist, which he receives with most peaceful gratefulness, as if his soul is soothed momentarily in realization of his holy forgiveness). The priest has no home outside of the church, at least, that is what he claims. However, when the church lifts its song to the trembling funeral requiem, he flees to his second home, where some undeniable part of his heart is buried. The building is four stories tall and rather run-down, the third floor being the only floor of interest to the interest of the priest, for it was the abode of a late friend. How comforting it is, this phrase. Bittersweetly so. “A late friend”, as if the mentioned friend is only held back by forgetfulness, business, traffic, or something of the sort. Though he has put a mile or so between himself and the church, the choir, and the screams of the young man left behind still ring in his ears. He climbs the flight of stairs, leading upward in a graceless and age-weathered spiral, his heart heavy. Many times, he has told himself he would not visit again, for something in his visitations provokes the uncomfortable guilt that seeps in after one sins. The room on the third floor he seeks is the same as he left it; the rusted bronze 309 still hangs lopsidedly on the door, and white paint peels from the wood. He pauses a moment to cross himself before the door, lingering in indecision. He opens it. The apartment is dusty, and still smells like him— the subject of the priest’s agonies. A friend was not the right name for him, for it was too casual. Perhaps he knew the right name for him, and only dared not to admit it. In every aspect of him, the priest saw God’s grace and immaculate design. Never had he met someone so gentle, selfless, so knowing—as if he could read his mind. The sunlight streaming in through the softly billowing curtains could never be as bright as his smile. The chitter of birds outside, rejoicing in the Lord’s fresh morning, could never be as sweet-sounding as the kindly laughter which would on frequent occasion flower from his lips. How the priest longed for the warmth of his touch, warmth the sun could never succeed in replacing. Life’s cruel nature permits that one doesn’t realize the fragility of a friendship until it is shattered. How could you know that eternity is as breakable as glass when left unwarned and unseeing? The priest stood in the doorway for a while, gazing into the room without entering. When he managed the courage to move, he stepped inside and gingerly shut the door behind him.