I Grandfather Basil toys a pepper shaker in his palm and a crucifix in the other and the steeple clings to November sky, graying overhead. Old maples whither and finally collapse as the cold sets in and we head inside for mass. In the dense air, the ringing church bells, my weary heart feels the Byzantine reverb crawling up my sleeve. From ten years back I remember my grandmother, prostrate. II In October I came here last with my daughter, whose light hair wavers in the sunlight caught in thinning gray firs. Along Main Streets, rows of buggies—parked bright mornings—spilled down the roads. Inside diner windows, students and armymen would sit in the afternoon and reminisce. Today these streets are more vacant, and my daughter sits in the thin sheet of snow on the pavement. A rusted white car rests by the church while its owners seeds the trees on the lot.
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