I feel like a living cliche

(That's "cleeshay", I don't have the accent for the 'e' in the headline.)

I'm writing this from an internet cafe on Main street and 10th in Vancouver, sitting amidst all the other hipsters and students, sipping a chai-latte and chewing a (somewhat stale) biscotti. I've brought my computer and am picking up the cafe's free wireless. I could spend all night in here if I wanted, sipping and writing. A fine arrangement. I am not, however, wearing black. Nor do I have a cellphone. I am hoping that the similarities between self and fellow lounge-lizards are superficial only.

I spent the day today sorting through my mother's belongings that were in storage. I have found nothing suprising, but many photos. All of her life story which I added last week is now illustrated with pictures of her lookng cherubic, despite wartime rationing.

I also found something that readers may have been looking forward to for some time: a photo taken of me in highschool, complete with 80's hair style.

The funeral Mass is not going to be in the True Rite, but will be keeping a minimum of decorum. Being the only Catholic among mum's family and friends, I expect it will not be heavily populated. And that is just fine with me.

It turns out that the priest is not a Franciscan after all. Neither is he a hippie, a godless commie nor a pagan. He seemed a sensible, perfectly ordinary Novus Ordo parish priest and, thanks be to God, told me that mum recieved the last sacraments and quite reverently. I was so relieved I almost burst into tears on the spot. After that news, after having my mind set at rest on something that had been plaguing me terribly, all else seems almost superfluous.

White vestments at the funeral Mass? Offertory "songs" out of the Glory and Praise songbook? Hand-shake o' peace?

Tchah! Who cares?

Deo Gratias.



* ~ *

more to come.