I dreamed that Father Florio came back for a visit. I was standing in front of the pulpit looking out at a crowd of excited people clustered in the pews when suddenly there he was, making his way down the center aisle. His black shirt – not a clergy shirt – was outlined in fairy lights and baubles, and he was smiling broadly, turning from side to side to greet everyone.
The people crowded around him, greeting him and chattering excitedly. As they came toward the chancel steps, I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. From my right, emerging from the side door into the sanctuary, he came again, this time in his plain cassock, his face pale and rigid with strain. He did not look at the crowd or at me, but swept past me, across the chancel, and out of view.
He was terribly important to me, and to many people, all those years ago.
October 21, 2020 COVID-19 Infections and Deaths