ASH WEDNESDAY

Every Ash Wednesday, I remember my father. When I was young, he used to creep up to my bed while I was asleep; I would pretend that I was sleeping already--though I really was in the middle of the state of being awake and dreaming. He would shuffle my hair gently and, without a word, using his thumb, make the sign of the cross on my forehead. He would be silent for a few seconds and then go away. All I would hear was that sound of my old man, trying not to make a sound.