Walking Towards the Altar With the Beatific Angels

I walk towards the altar with the beatific angels

In black cassock and white surplice.

An altar boy. An acolyte.

Holding a small cruet of dago red.

Wanting to get close to God

The time is for transsubstiation.

The priest, a substitute priest who I don’t know,

Projects majesty and splendor In his green and white chausible with gold inlays.

Holding the soon-to-be blood of Christ

I burn with intensity of intent. I burn with responsibility. I burn with devotion.

I bow my chin and close my eyes when the priest says.

”By the mystery of the water and wine,

May we come to share in the divinity of Christ

Who humbled himself to share in our humanity”.

He moves the gold chalice in front of me.

I tip and pour in a thimbleful of the dago red

He taps the cruet again hard

My face floods with warmth.

Maybe

Maybe

Maybe this is the devil’s warmth

He taps a third time. Even harder. I see his eyes are empty.

With a burning face, I empty the cruet realizing he’s an alcoholic.

My throat dries with the vanishing of the beatific angels.