It was a spring morning, bright May sunlight, and we were standing by a clump of cedars planted near the back door of the sacristy. The small white wooden church was St. Theresa's and we have just served Mass for Father McMahon. He was a handsome young curate with dark wavy hair and a beautiful singing voice. The birds of the parish were singing too all the way from the statue of the Little Flower in front to the swampy land behind the baseball diamonds in back. The sky was polished with blue.

Father McMahon had dashed through the morning Mass for a few parishioners. His Latin was perfect and musical, our responses were loud but imprecise, a race to the end of the inflected line. The old ladies sat up front with their rosaries dangling over the wooden pews; a couple older men sat in the darkness all the way to the back. A fireman in uniform blessed himself, genuflected in the center aisle and left for work. The stained-glass windows were bursting with light.

The day was indelibly young. My brother and I were 11 years old. We were the same height and weight. Both of us had brown hair with a cowlick in back. Both had big ears and goofy smiles. We were the only altar boys in the parish who arrived as a pair. The new school

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behind us was immaculately clean and modern looking. The towering ash trees in the field below put out their leaves forming a green fringe. The sun was a huge gold ball in the sky, and there was a cool breeze shimmering in the leaves. A slight smell of beeswax candles lingered in the sacristy behind us.

Brian and I had already brought the glass cruets into the sacristy. We had snuffed the altar candles, carried in the large red Sacramentary book with its bright ribbons and returned the bell that was rung during the consecration when the priest lifted the host high above his head with two hands. Our altar boy cassock and surplice were carefully placed on a wooden hanger. The air was sweet with blossoms and the fresh smell of the grasses. We had a few minutes before classes started. Father McMahon waves to us, and said, "Don't forget to say hello to Mom and Dad for me. Your mother has such a lovely voice in the choir."

I looked across the school yard and saw my favorite nun, Sister Mary Francis, walking in her black habit and reading from a prayer book. The breeze lifted the hem of her garment and she seemed to be floating angelically above the pavement. A white light reflected off the pages of the missal. There was a shine on the world as if angels were dancing around and behind and within everything. Brian and I parted ways as the big yellow school buses rolled in and kids disembarked in respectful silence in the blue and white parochial school uniforms with the school logo STS sewn on ties and jumpers.

The beauty of the day penetrated the usually businesslike hallways of St. T's. The old nuns, blinking in the sunlight, greeted us with smiles and waves. They were still floating on the fleecy vapors of a late Easter when the risen Lord joined the Easter lilies and the fruit trees and the robins. Today we were to crown the Blessed Mother Queen of the May. The girls had brought in fresh flowers in aluminum foil yellows and blues, whites and pinks. The plaster statue of Mary, standing over the SRA reading kit in the corner, was crowned with a spring bouquet and we sang in unison:

Hail Queen of the heavens

Hail mistress of earth

Hail virgin most pure

Of immaculate birth.

Ave, Ave, Ave Maria.

Our voices soared in adoration and the morning sun flooded the big classroom windows, illuminating the room with a halo. My soul lifted with the choir. In the joy of our faith and our singing I felt myself lifting off the tile floor and into another zone. During religion Sister Joseph spoke to us of the glorified body. "Christ is risen and purified with light, children. And his body glows with a new life beyond anything we can imagine here. And we will be lifted from our earthly heaviness and live as pure spirits in eternal joy."

The radiance continued all the way home. The bus was also filled with light and the trees were making countless little flowers, some putting out tiny green leaves. The day had the feeling of an ocean spreading over the earth and washing it clean of all sin and suffering. Waves of joy and delight passed over me. Suppertime seemed to come in the middle of the day as the sun was still high above the maple trees surrounding our house. It was the first day we were allowed to go outside after supper to play for a few more hours. Suddenly Old Town Road had become an Eden. I was feeling myself on the edge of an unearthly ecstasy.

We crossed the plank bridge and visited the small strip of land on the other side of the brook. We each claimed pieces of the "island" as our own and were nearly somersaulting with energy in our new freedom. At the edge of the water there was a maple tree with a forked trunk. The tree was about 15 feet tall and still had a smooth gray bark. It was my tree now and I decided to climb it to survey my kingdom. Once I lifted myself over the fork I should shimmy the rest of the way up into the crown.

I reached above for support and hoisted myself into the fork. If I could get my sneaker in there, I was all set. But something happened. My knee slid down into the fork and felt like it was held by a vice grip. My other leg was dangling off the ground. I tried to free myself but the more I wiggled the tighter the knee became wedged in the fork. I now felt an excruciating pressure that numbed my whole leg. I was hanging helplessly and the pain grew deeper. I did something I rarely did as a boy I panicked. My head was covered with sweat and I shouted my lungs off. My mother came to the back porch. My brothers and sisters gathered around me watching me caught in the grip of pain.

Mom told Brian to run and get Grandpa D two houses away. I thought I was going to die hanging from that tree and I started whispering my last confession. My lanky Grandpa came striding across the back yard grumbling.

"Stop your bawling! Stop your bawling boy! Now listen to me and calm down. I will lift you out of the crook of the tree if you stop being a baby about it." He lifted but my knee only felt more tightly struck. More bawling on my part. Grandpa D, losing patience, took the tree trunk in his powerful carpenter hands and twisted it. I seemed to just fall out of the tree after that. I rubbed the redness out of my knee and looked back in disbelief, startled and embarrassed by the strange incident.

My dream-like day had ended with the pinch of earth. No matter how high we fly above this world in faith and ecstasy, we always come back down to the labor and the strife that make us dream of better worlds to come.