As a child, I hated it: the feel of news
ink, jet text imprinting my palms,
my fingertips with the urgency
of the past twelve hours. Of course
I ended up running a newspaper.
So much smoking in the office
that windows seemed coated
with yellowed cellophane.
So many people passing through
to buy ads or input stories on screens
as small as my hands. Amanda
with her straight hair always falling
onto a paste board. Vanessa working
extra hours to save for her marriage.
Josh preparing an editorial. Robbie
listening to new albums to review.
Patrick, trying to experience what he could
before entering the seminary. He disapproved
of all the smoking, so he became Father Pat.
A joke. We all believed he’d never take vows.
Decades later, finally free from ink, I read
a random headline online: US priest’s
sentence offer for molesting child
too lenient, says accuser in case.
Of course it was Father Pat. He took vows.
Of course it was The Guardian,
with its name heralding protection.
He taught at St. Benilde, named
after the saint who “did common things
in an uncommon way.” Pope Pius said that.
“No day is ever the same,” said Father Pat in
the Clarion Herald, our hometown Catholic newspaper.
“I love preaching,” he also said, “but I like
hearing confessions even better.”
So many times, I ended up rubbing
my ink-stained hands against my shirt
or on my khaki-covered thighs. A record
of what had come loose from the page.
Did Father Pat enjoy the confessions
he made, after listening to the venal sins
of children? Or did he confess at all?
Did he keep everything to himself,
cleaning his hands against his black shirt.
knowing his stains wouldn’t be seen?
Did I take moments to look past
his discussions of baseball statistics
and disapproving glances at Amanda
because he knew she always used vulgar
language to mock him as a priest to be?
If I had seen the damage he was to create,
what would I have done, then?
Every staircase is safe until I miss a step,
twisting my left ankle. The pain is hardly
noticeable, except when rain falls.