A Cinema Paradiso Moment

In one of the latter scenes of the Giuseppe Tornatore-directed movie Cinema Paradiso, the protagonist, Salvatore "Toto" Di Vita, returns to his hometown to attend the funeral of someone he knew in his childhood, after many years of purposely staying away from home. He sees many of the faces he knew from his younger days--older, white-haired, dim-eyed, wrinkled--much like his own. They all recognize and nod solemn greetings to each other.

Before sunset yesterday, a relative needed someone to drive her to church. I had time, so I offered to take her. I knew she still attended services in a small chapel in my old neighborhood, one that I used to go to together with my whole family every week when we were all much, much younger, and did not yet have our own schedules and individual lives to live. It's been years since I've been to this place.

I became Toto, and then some, receiving and giving smiles to familiar, older faces.

"Long time no see," Mrs. G. said.

"Welcome back," R. said, gripping my hand in a firm handshake.

Mrs. R's eyes brightened when she saw me. "Oh my gosh, it's you! It's really you!"

C., jolly old C., laughed out loud when she saw me. "What are you doing here?" she said.

The organist, still the same one, still playing the same songs, waved at me. From across the pews, her smile shone on me like the noonday sun.

There were a number of missing faces. When I inquired, Mrs. G. told me that some had moved on to other neighborhoods, some had moved on "upstairs".

"Mr. N. and his family stopped coming when Mrs. N. passed away," she said. "He also had a feud with the D. family. They stopped coming, too."

"Oh, wow," I said, dumbly. The N. and D. families had been attending chapel services the longest among all of us. "Where do they go now?"

"No one knows," Mrs. G. frowned sadly. "When Mrs. N. moved "upstairs", Mr. N. and his children just disappeared. I also don't know where the D. family is."

Everyone was older, and I felt my age along with them. I was surprised at the number who didn't use to need canes now leaning on sticks and hobbling clumsily to their seats. Though inconvenienced by this, they found the time to spare me a smile of recognition. I was most happy to see many young children, the progeny of those who had greeted me, running and playing in the aisles, reminding me how some of their parents used to do the same.

Way, way back when, I used to be the lector in that small chapel; R. had taken over, and frankly, I think he does a better job. I tried to keep my mind on the services, but my eyes wandered over families that had lost members, or gained some through marriage or birth. There were newer, unfamiliar faces, too. I suppose they were new to the area, or more appropriately, new to me, since they could've been going to this chapel during all those years I had been away.

The chapel itself hadn't changed. The design of it is very old-fashioned, at least twenty-five years old by my count, but quite well-maintained and very serviceable. The ceiling fans, the altar, the pews, the lectern, the sound system, are all vintage; I think the organ is a certified antique. Even the grain of the wood panels lining the walls was something from the early 80's, something one doesn't see much of anymore.

When services were done, the goodbyes were as sweet as the hello's. "Don't be a stranger," Mrs. R. told me, touching my hand with her gnarled fingers.

I don't know when I'll be back, though. Like Toto, I have to "head back to the city", so to speak. But I find comfort in knowing that this small chapel has weathered time well, even if not all its congregants have, me least of all.