Seven
Days of Aunt Immacolata
I
don’t know what made me think about her. I was sitting in
my car outside the church, waiting for Anthony. He said
he’d spotted the steeple from the road, followed it like a
beacon, got lost twice before locating it. Wedged into the
hill like a sacred stone, the church seemed content to hide
among the towering oaks, but its steeple--shimmering gray
slate from sidewalk to heavens--announced its presence with
glaring bravado. Not to be outdone, blankets of rose bushes
framing the walkway teemed with blooms, a mosaic of colors
that shouted at your eyes.
The church was picture
perfect for a wedding--the joining of Alyssa Profetto to
Anthony Mudano. He was the choice I had made.
I suppose the name of the
church made me think about her. Our Lady of Immaculate
Conception. Her name was Immacolata; I knew her as Aunt
Immy. When I was eleven, she visited us from Italy and
stayed for seven days.
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