Pietà

My grandmother had a Pietà in her bookcase shelf, the Madonna holding the body of her broken child. It probably cost very little, yet represented an excruciating time in her life, one that she never discussed. But the Pietà was there for everyone to see, silently bearing the pain and injustice of it all.
Sincerely devout, Nana would go to mass every Sunday, my grandfather driving her to church and waiting in the car, even in August. He did the Sunday jumble while she listened to the homily. She never asked him to join her, he never went. They spoke a common language. Theirs was a great marriage.

Nana’s faith was what eventually restored her after her eldest son died. February 21, 1962. The broken child in the arms of the Madonna was her 22-year-old son Danny, lost in a car crash. My grandfather identified him. I have no idea what sustained Grandpa. He never spoke about it either.

My father, Bobby, died from a heart attack 34 years later, on February 21, 1996, largely because of Danny’s death. It was a burden he also silently carried, but it howled with agony inside of him. What other reason could there be for his heart to give out the same day his brother had died?

My mother was the one who delivered the news to my grandmother. Mom and Dad had divorced years earlier, but it was the mark of how great a woman Mom is that she did this. My step-father brought…