The Candle and the Light

Once for his father, once for his mother, once for the boy he used to be, Marco adjusted his olive-green tie three times.

The gesture had become

Aa ritual in itself, this had become a way of slowing down the tremor of his fingers.

Ah, well, he thought, it can’t be helped catching his reflection, by the entrance, in the church’s brass candlestick.

Older than his thirty-five years his eyes looked.

Incense curled like restless ghosts inside St. Jude’s nave.

The stone pillars glistened with candlelight, and every whisper echoed into vastness.

It was All Souls’ Day.

Each clutching a regret, a memory or a name, the parishioners sat scattered like weary birds on the wooden pews.

Father Gabriel’s voice resounded as he read the litany of the dead. “Rossi, Benedetto.”

Marco rose.

Nearly buckled his knees.

Oh dear!, he muttered under his breath, before straightening with a defiance that belonged more than to himself, to his father.

He stepped forward carrying the candle, a flame trembling against the cathedral’s draft.

He thought of their quarrel—land versus London, vines versus science. That endless tug-of-war had been their Achilles’ heel, the crack in the armor of a relationship otherwise bound by shared stubbornness. His father wanted him in the vineyards of Ostia; Marco wanted research, laboratories, the hum of cosmopolitan life. Blimey, he whispered as the memory hit like the tolling bell: the last conversation they had ended in silence.

Luisa, his sister, sat two pews ahead. She turned, caught his eye, and mouthed Hang in there. Marco managed a nod, though his throat was desert-dry.

Flashback I – The Sea

Marco’s mind drifted, carried by incense and organ chords. He was twelve again, chasing seagulls across Ostia’s sand. Their father, Benedetto Rossi, planted his feet in the wet earth, hands cupped around his mouth: “A rolling stone gathers no moss, ragazzo! Stay close!”

The boy Marco, reckless and grinning, shouted back, “Oi! I’m free!” But that night, as the family shared fried calamari, Benedetto reminded them: “Actions speak louder than words. You can run all you like, but where you choose to stand—that’s your truth.”

Eh, really? Marco had thought, not knowing those words would one day cut deeper than the salt wind.

The Service

Returning to the present, Marco placed the candle near the altar. The nave seemed to shrink, closing around his chest. A boy in the back gasped, “Wow!”, surprised at how quickly the flame licked higher as if in greeting.

The liturgy ended. People shuffled out, muttering condolences. At the lichgate, Mr. Patel’s widow pressed his hand: “Every cloud has a silver lining.”

Marco almost answered “Your guess is as good as mine”, but instead gave a faint smile. He doubted some darkness ever lifted.

The vicar stopped him. “Well, my son, don’t call it a day yet. Let the letters speak. Words outlast even our stubborn silences.”

Hmm, Marco thought. Easy to say when you’re not the one drowning in unsent apologies.

By the River

Marco, instead of joining the wake, walked toward the river. Across the cobblestones leaves scudded. Rituals, he mused, could be both cage and notebook. Alas, he thought, my father saw them as sacred binding. I saw them as shackles.

A message from Luisa made his phone buzz.

“Please. We need you to say something.”

Marco hesitated. His first impulse was to type: “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” But guilt gnawed at him. Instead, he wrote: “I’ll try to say what matters.”

He pocketed the phone and muttered to the water, “Ah, now I understand.”

The Wake

The parish hall reeked of overbrewed coffee and damp coats. Sandwiches sweated under clingfilm. Bottles of grappa stood like soldiers waiting for orders.

Luisa, resolute in black, caught Marco by the elbow. “Come on, eh? You’ll speak.”

He froze. “Oh, please—”

But she pushed him gently toward the front. Reluctantly, Marco faced the room.

He began, his voice shaking: “My father believed actions speak louder than words. We fought about that. I stayed in London; he stayed with the vines. We left things unfixed, and then he died—by the skin of one’s teeth chance, I wasn’t with him.”

Gasps. A mutter of “Oh dear!” Someone called “Cheers!” awkwardly, as if to puncture the heaviness.

Marco pressed on. “I once thought rituals were superstition. But they are notebooks—ways we belong to each other. I left mine closed too long. My father always said the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, yet he taught me love is labor. Today I carried a candle. Later, I’ll open his letters.”

Applause pattered like hesitant rain. An old man laughed softly—a blessing in disguise. Marco ended: “If you knew him, you know this: he’d have liked a wake with too many sandwiches and better stories each retelling. So—cheers to that.”

Well I never!, whispered an aunt, dabbing her eyes.

Flashback II – London

He remembered his London days. Labs full of sterile light, colleagues tossing idioms like lab notes: “It’s not rocket science,” they’d say, though they worked with genomes. When Marco hesitated to publish, his mentor barked: “Get your act together or call it a day!”

At night he walked the Thames.

He was missing his father’s vineyard so much, which was not that easy to admit.

He repeated to himself,

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” he kept on repeating to himself, but each step in London felt like walking further from home.

The Letters – First Reading

Back at the family kitchen, Marco slit the first envelope. His father’s handwriting tumbled across the page.

“If you come home, I will not call it surrender. If you do not, I will not call it betrayal. Do what you must. But do it with both hands. Work or love, don’t call it a day because pain asks you to leave early.”

Marco’s hands shook. A postscript: “Your mother wanted me to say every cloud has a silver lining. I do not believe it. But perhaps this letter is my broken way of trying.”

Luisa pressed his hand. “He tried.”

Marco whispered, “Yeah. We both did.”

The Second Letter

Another envelope:

“Marco, remember: A ship in harbour is safe, but that’s not what a ship is for. You wanted London; I wanted vines. Perhaps both are right. But don’t beat around the bush: life is short, and nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Marco closed his eyes. Bugger, he thought, he was wiser than I allowed.

Dialogue with Luisa

Luisa poured grappa. “He never said these things aloud. Perhaps he believed silence was golden.”

Marco chuckled bitterly. “Or maybe he thought better late than never.”

“Don’t cry over spilt milk,”

She said softly: “Don’t cry over spilt milk.

We’ve got the letters. That’s something.”

Marco raised his glass. “To Dad. To rituals. To letters that arrive too late, yet still on time.”

Flashback III – The Vineyard

In memory, the vineyard shimmered. Rows of vines like disciplined soldiers. Benedetto’s voice: “Make hay while the sun shines. Don’t cut corners; vines know your soul.”

Young Marco replied, “But Dad, I want the city!”

“Eh? What’s a city compared to roots?”

“Roots trap you.”

Benedetto laughed: “Don’t put the cart before the horse, boy. One day you’ll see: roots hold you steady when storms come.”

Wow, Marco whispered now in the kitchen, he hit the nail on the head.

The Third Letter

This one was shorter:

“Marco, if you find this, know that I forgave you before you asked.

A bad workman blames his tools, that’s to remember.

If you falter, falter with honesty. That is enough.”

Marco exhaled. God, what a man he was.

Closure

Night deepened. The siblings sat surrounded by opened envelopes. The kitchen smelled of coffee, candlewax, and salt tears.

Luisa finally said: “So what now?”

Half-smiling, Marco answered:

“When we come to it, we’ll cross that bridge.”

But in his heart, he knew: some bridges are already crossed by the mere act of lighting a candle.

Epilogue

Weeks later, Marco stood in the vineyard. The vines were asleep in winter’s hush. He placed the last unopened letter between the roots.

“Every dog has his day, Dad. Maybe this is mine.”

The wind rustled.

A bell tolled, somewhere.

“Well, what did he say?” hHe whispered.

He said: work or love, do it with both hands.”

And for the first time, Marco believed.