A Wedding, a Knife; A Finger, a Death

I’m married. No secret there. Had my fifteenth wedding anniversary last month. If you were to ask about my, about “our” most memorable moments, there’d be a lack of uniformity in our descriptions. Our memories, for whatever reasons, seem fragmented, seem splintered. Small episodic events, unless photographed and studied, never quite achieving accuracy. Where to begin?

We both agreed about the cake, at least the cutting tradition, how someone from the kitchen grabbed an engraved knife (the names are lost on us, the proofs returned long ago) and helped stage the close-up hand shots for the inebriated photographer. What type of cake? How many tiers? These questions are better answered by my wife, her active role in the planning stage a clear advantage. She could quote the cost too, I’m sure. And what of the wedding date (definitely not ours) engraved on that silver knife with an off-white marble handle? (I do remember that.)

So why, you may ask, have I mentioned the knife? Why focus on what’s not “ours”? (Here’s the rub: what happens to be mine, my wedding ring, has another woman’s name engraved in it. I didn’t make that discovery until some ten years later.) So why reflect on the negative? Why not reflect on something positive? Why, after a month’s delay, have I decided to write about our wedding?

Here’s why: During Monday’s breakfast of Shredded Wheat (yes, my braces can handle it), while sipping coffee and reading the newspaper, I came across the photo of the Reverend Father Pasquale LoGrasso. He performed our wedding ceremony. I asked my wife, “What do you remember about him?” She mentioned her family’s moment of sadness, the grief, the sobbing heard inside the church, how Father Pasquale, against our wishes, dedicated the mass to her 92 year old grandfather who had passed away one day prior to our wedding (her Grandfather’s proclamation: I’m going to see my last grandchild get married). I asked again, “Yeah, I know all that, but what distinguishing characteristic do you remember about Father Pasquale?”

My question had been lost on her. She stated the obvious: He was a man of the cloth. He wore glasses. He spoke with an accent. It wasn’t until my leading question did she remember. “Wasn’t his index finger severed at the first knuckle?” I asked. “You’re right,” she answered, only to inquire as to why I would bring that up. “I’ve always wondered,” I continued, “what happened. Did someone pinch it in a car door? Did he shave it off with a table saw? Did he poke it through a chain link fence harboring a pit bull? What happened?”

Neither of us knew. I cut out his obituary. I read it again. He died at the age of 76. May he rest in peace.