We Light the Candles

We light the candles in the church as the hour approaches sunrise, our scuffed brogues showing under our surplices. We are the chosen ones, those without sin, the goody two shoes, the mammy's boys, the teacher's pets, the suck-ups, the piss-a-beds, the creeping Jesuses of our class. My cousin was an altar boy in his day, and he went to Washington D.C. to work for the New York Times newspaper and died of Aids, alone and adrift in another land. He's home now for his funeral.

We light the candles for the requiem Mass, the coffin centrally placed, in front of the tabernacle, the soft red light glowing in the dim church. Father Lynch gave us coconut creams and mugs of strong tea because we were “lambs of Christ.” His hand was warm and heavy on my shoulder and he ruffled my hair, his fingers digging into my scalp. My cousin is in the coffin and the Bishop will say the Mass and Father Lynch will assist. The car park is full of seagulls when the bishop arrives and he yells at them, calling them “Heathen creatures.” 

We light the candles in the sacristy. It's an hour before 8 o'clock Mass and we pull the red and white surplices over our school uniforms. Rónan O'Carroll takes the altar wine from the cupboard and removes the cork. In turn we take swigs from the neck of the bottle. I don't like the taste of the wine and feel it come back up my throat in a burning sensation. The door of the church rattles and O'Carroll bungs the cork back on the bottle and returns it to the cupboard. “Heigh, Ho!” Father Lynch shouts as he makes his way up the central nave to the altar and we hear his footfall as he draws closer. 

We light the candles for the lost souls in the Mother & Baby home. The small room is filled with newspapers piled to the rafters, yellowed and ancient. I haven't been in this room since the church closed for business after the Ryan Report was released and the Vatican tried to suppress the damage. Looking around the abandoned sacristy I remember the hot of Father Lynch's hand on my scalp and the Wrigley's Juicy Fruit on his breath. I take a stump of candle, light it with a match and put it to a copy of the Irish Times at the bottom of one of the stacks of newspapers. I do not pray as the flame catches hold.