Confessions Between Dark Figures

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

“What sin is this, my child?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

This was my first time in twenty years inside a confessional booth. I had no idea who sat in the darkness on the other side of the metal grate, and the idea of speaking about my woes to a pure stranger made my skin crawl. Yet, here I was, a woman in her seventies, desperate to heal myself.

“Why is it you can’t tell me?” the dark figure replied. “Have you hurt someone?”

“No,” I hastily replied, horrified at the thought of being confused for a murderer. “At least not directly. It’s a complicated matter, one that is too painful for me to speak.”

“Then I’m afraid God cannot grant you forgiveness, my child. A sin must be known for it to be forgiven. Otherwise, I cannot be sure of your repentance.”

“Doesn’t he know, though?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Doesn’t he implicitly know what sin I’m guilty of, and how repentant I am? He is omnipotent, after all. He sees all and knows all.”

“Yes, but repentance starts with admission. If you are unable to admit it, then you are unable to truly, earnestly repent.”

We both sunk into silence, our bodies shrouded in darkness and our voices consumed by the weight of truth. He was the first one to speak again.

“Tell me, my child. I sense you did not come here willingly. Is that so?”

“Very insightful, Father.”

The sarcasm did not stop him.

“If speaking of your sin is too much to bear, why don’t you tell me when you lost faith, and what took it away from you.”

I hesitated. Admitting I was now atheist to a priest as I begged him for forgiveness would certainly make me look foolish, if not outright neurotic.

“I lost my husband in the attacks, back then.”

“He worked in the towers?”

“Yes, the South one. He was months away from retiring.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s enough to shake anybody’s faith. Mine included.”

I let out an audible gasp, which he naturally heard.

“You sound surprised,” he cackled from the other side of the grate. “Yes, I’m atheist too. Many on that day wondered how a world with God could be so cruel. I’ve been wondering ever since.”

“An atheist priest… that’s certainly a sight to see. At the risk of crossing a line, may I ask why it is you’re still here then?”

“Because I’m an old man, and this is all I’ve ever known. I’m still here because I have no other option, if you want to put it that way. You, on the other hand, have a choice. You made the choice to come here today, twenty years later. Please, quench my curiosity and tell me why.”

It felt as if the shadows shrouding him had slightly lifted. His admission had made his silhouette clearer to me, more defined. It must have been my eyes acclimating, of course, but then why was it I felt like the dark figure amongst the two of us now?

The words felt constrained inside my throat. I could not bring myself to say it out loud.

“You’re afraid of death,” he said in a whisper.

I froze. It was impossible for him to know. Was I sitting next to a clairvoyant?”

“I know,” he said, “because I’ve seen many people come back here in the face of death. It’s the one certainty we have. There may not be a God or an afterlife at all, but death is real, and we can’t escape it. Somewhere, in a corner of your mind, you fear there may be an afterlife after all, and you wonder what it holds.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“But it’s not hell you’re afraid of. You don’t care about God, immortality or any of that. This sin you speak of… does it have a connection with your husband?”

I gasped audibly again.

“Am I this much of an open book?”

“You are, but by all means, that’s not a bad thing. Let me guess. You did something you regret before he died, and now you can’t help but think of what he would say if you were to be reunited with him.”

“I’m afraid you know me too well, Father.”

“Then say no more. You won’t find what you’re looking for here. You don’t believe in God, and you don’t believe I have any authority to grant you the forgiveness you seek, so go seek it from the one person who can give it to you.”

“How so?”

“Forgiveness comes from repentance, and repentance starts with admission. That’s all I can say.”

I took a moment for his words to sink in. They felt so empty in the beginning when he first said them, yet now the weighed on me with so much meaning and wisdom. I stood up.

“Thank you, Father. And for the record, if ever you do decide to leave the profession, you could potentially be a very successful therapist.”

***

I walked down the avenue, approaching my destination for the very first time. I had refrained from coming here all those years, afraid of what I might find. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but my feet were light and sprightly nonetheless.

There it was. Ground Zero. I closed my eyes and listened. The distant honking of cars flooded my ears. The gentle autumn breeze caressed my bare forearms. The unmistakable smell of New York filled my nostrils. Most importantly, I felt him. I did not know how, but I knew he was there, by my side.

“Forgive me George. You were going to call in sick that day, but I pushed you. I said you were being lazy, and so you went to work. I’m sure you knew something was up. I pushed you to go because that day, I was to meet with another man.”

I paused. My body quivered violently. It all felt so real, so powerful. The power of saying it out loud, after all these years.

“I betrayed you, and if it wasn’t for this betrayal, you might still be here today. I haven’t found the strength in me to forgive myself, and I probably never will. I can only hope you can.”

The breeze caressed my forearms again, this time with more intent. He was indeed by my side, and I knew he had given me forgiveness. I still hadn’t forgiven myself, but forgiveness comes from repentance, and repentance starts with admission. Today, I had checked one of those boxes.