Father Domenico was a proud man, but he would never admit it to anyone. He ate, slept, prayed and recently, he would spend most of the day with me. I would selfishly take him away from his other students, his classes and his sermons, but I saw what he was. Father Domenico always loved to be right, and he always liked to be the teacher, rather than the student. I respected him and looked up to him as the highest regard, even though he said never to look at him like an icon, more like a leader. He was the leader of the church and everyone looked up to him, including me. Perhaps I praised him more than he deserved to be praised. When I watched him, no doubt he was probably flattered and enjoyed what I gave him.
What I did not understand, he obliged, what I could not do…he did and he showed me the way.
He told me…I was to look at God as my savior, not him.
For some reason God never registered anything to me, because I had never been taught religion growing up. I had not been taught of the faith, the crucifix, Jesus…God. It was only recently that I had been told I was rescued by God and within his hands he had shown me into the right path. Eighteen years I had gone by and never known about this….until he had started teaching me. I did not understand most of what Father Domenico talked about, because there was a deeper meaning behind it. I sometimes would think that I easily frustrated him with how many times he had to go over things with me… I always sat and listened. I never had any questions to ask him personally, but in my mind I was full of questions to ask. He always said he was open to discussion, and yet I could hardly think on my own. I never knew where to begin, but I suppose the question on my mind was…if God existed why did he let me suffer for so long?
I never openly ‘suffered’ I always assumed one was supposed to live like that…until he spoke to me telling me that I had suffered and I was stripped of my privileges, my rights as a human being. It was beyond my comprehension though, of what ‘suffering’ and ‘living’ was.
Whenever the subject came up of my past he stayed calm and collected. He lowered his eyes and took off his glasses. We both stayed silent. He never cursed the ones I had been with, but I knew that secretly he did. He did not look at me as a lost hope in the eyes of God, not like the other Priests had. He wanted to show me into the light, and I had begun to question myself in the process. Father Murdough never looked me in the eyes and he never spoke to me directly. He was the one who had single handed saved me, I wanted nothing more than to possibly thank him.
It was clear he wanted nothing to do with me.
Signore Sammito did not spend much time with me. I saw him around and we conversed as much as I knew how too… he was not a priest, but I felt I could talk to him anyway. He seemed to have other thoughts when he talked to me. It was what I was wearing, what I placed my hair into…my smile. None of that seemed to matter to Father Domenico
…
In fact, nothing seemed to faze him. He never got too happy or too sad….and he never got angry. I always wondered what the Father thought about, what he thinks of me…sincerely?