I remember . . .

The sister’s chapel is dim. A tall lanky priest with dark hair busies himself with prayers and ritual. My brother stands quietly next to me. Then there is light. Father hands me a lit candle. Ceremonial candles are of beeswax, and my brother holds his so tight it softens and bends under his fingers. I am only five, he six, but I remember.

Most Catholics don’t remember their baptism. They are brought into the faith as infants.  Mutti wanted to wait for my father to return from the war. He didn’t.