The Sunday Mass

The Sunday's Mass

They did not notice I was back nor that I left. They kept welcoming me, nicely, as if I was assisting to the Sunday's Mass religiously. Never went back again since 2003 and I think it is the lastest memory I have with my grandmother. 

I can't blame them. They always shown interest. Asked me how were my dreams at the moment. If I had enough health. I said it was hard to make a living and after that deep answer - which I thought they would want to know -they didn't ask again. Felt a lot of indifference inside the town just like I was crossing enemy lines. 

Nobody was nervous about anything: no expectations, no illusions. Just the change of the wheater; the death of those veterans who fought for the democracy once upon a time and maybe, still beating, the collapsation of turism were the uniques daily headlines in the local newspaper. I remember it used to exist a radio canal: but since the radioman had retired, no one was brave enough to take his charge, no one was brave enough to speak. So the town swaped in the sea of silence, except on Sundays.

They never noticed my abscense, neither that my house was falling down slowly like leaves fall in autumn. The wood cracked painfully the past August, saw some stone holes in the windows and bats occuping the property. The furnitures were getting old, turning uglier year by year although my grandparent used to take care of the whole house. To face this situation, they started leading a new role: the suppresion on any souvenir because just a deathful memory could fill those aging holes. The sense of nothing and emptyness. The meaning of letting go. The fact of exclusion. Accepting someone does not exist anymore is a worthy reason to push live moving on. I guess I died in some lyrical circumstance in their imagination. They never died for me, I entretained myself confirming they chosed a parallel universe outer of my world.

Nevertheless, all of us were so familiar. Despite of the indeference, I could not help the fact I was returning to my Motherland. Everyone seemed to take care of each other and at the same time, preventing from themselves. The strong trust and the agressive distrust seemed to share battlefield; such as allies, such as enemies. The dividing line was suprisingly thin, about to burst. 

For some time joining the Sunday's Mass was sort of a passtime for me, like strolling around the cementery. People seemed happy there, around those crowdy gatherings. I choose two important moments of the celebration: the preceremony, when everyone was showing proudly their Sunday's dress... And the final act, when everyone was chatting and getting along in front of the church. 

It was such an animated party.

The priest sometimes brought wine for the adults, sweets and juice for children. Everybody was sharing their best smiles and compliments: outside the orthodoxian church inhabitants were making pacts, plans and promises in a 10 meters per square patio. That space was far more powerful than the Government. Even if I was only 50 inch tall, the adult world seemed so interesting from the ground. I accompanied my granny because people used to sing beautiful songs at the mass - for that time I was less taught about life and I interpreted that images of harmony defined goodness. I guessed that was the most important of religion and about a community: the congregation of humans. I started to ask myself if I should have the same sense of faith too. Unfortunately, I have always known that I never felt enough. I wonder if granny knew it too. 

Some years forward, I was unstoppingly growing up, getting taller, having chest pain because I never managed my anxiety -- and no responsible adult in my family showed me how to do it. My parents decided to move to Spain in seek of better opportunities. We rented an old catalan house in a tiny village. Since the first day, I never felt like a stranger. It was quite an achivement for a foreign and low-incomed family. The adaption to the culture and language was quite rapid: both towns were apparently immersed in the same silent atmosphere. Where nothing happens, where nothing is trascendental, where time is no longer fleeting. The only difference I remark is, in the newest home, seemed to be less religious participation. In primary school, some of my friends attented to catechesis lectures so they would be baptized. In my case, I didn't have a chance to avoid my christening. Luckily, my dad worked as a mechanic and mum as a bartender so they couldn't afford any type of extrascholar activities, I stayed home for two reasons, pairly important: money and faith. On counteract, I had already whirled in the aura of Jesus. That was far enough.

From some months and so on, thoughts about my faithless tendency swam through my mind. "Why I can't believe? Why should I?". As if it were a necessary condition to be a complete human. It was never the same since 2003. The last religious ceremony I have enjoyed was in Rome. It wasn't in San Pietro, where I found out God's home exist. 

Accompanied with my bestest friends, our trip was arriving to its end. We had a list in hand of all the landmarks we would visit and that we had promised we would tick off. As I wrote when we were waiting in Villa Antonina, those moments would be backpacked in our hearts and would go back and turn again to Spain and Rome unstoppingly. That last day we went to San Carlo alle Quatro Fontane, one of our favourite barrok architectures. The mass had started at 12 o'clock and at 17 we had to go to the airport. We didn't have any other choice than to join it. I felt nothing but admiration, as per usual. I wished the roman priest would had expeled me from the sacred building while shouting out at me: Burn in hell, atheist! If you couldn't have faith in 2003, you'll never be able to!

I have never been able to manage this feeling of guilty. Was I an example of shame for my neighbours? Was I an example of what is forbidden?. Inside, I would have preferred banishment rather than indifference, so I could be able to justify this sentiment of emptyness and inability that was driving me nuts.