The bells rang hourly and sometimes in sudden moments of celebration. A baby was born or baptized. An elderly congregant’s hip replacement had taken. The nuns’ little Westie, Henry, a neighborhood icon and for one heady summer the ward’s “honorary” Democratic committee representative, had been returned to the church after accidentally (or boldly) boarding the Norfolk-Southern and falling asleep in a pile of mail bags. I tended to think that the dog had done it on his own. Up and left for a long weekend on the road. He was that sort of guy.
This morning, the bells rang brightly in an elegant version of “God Bless America.” The sunrise hung mutedly in the air, and I breathed slowly on the front porch. I waved to Henry when he walked by.