THE DAY OF MY FIRST COMMUNION 56 YEARS AGO

Anthony Parra

There are three Thursdays in the year that shine brighter than the sun: Judges Santo Corpus Christi and Ascension Day. That day in my beloved Segovia was the feast of the Ascension, a gray day overcast with clouds and sweet silent songs of the seraph of happiness. Today on this side of the Dead Woman and Seven Peaks, sacred cusps of my childhood that I see or intuit from the fields of Brunete, fields of my "old age", a splendid sun shines 56 years later and today is Corpus Christi, the solemn feast of the Eucharist, which in Greek means feeling grace and being in tune with beauty. Eucharists and eulogies in my heart. Eulogy is speaking well. Prosper in communion with the Logos. The verb. In principle it was Verbum. One since then has been a Eulogio who goes down the road looking for the host that is perpetually exposed in the heart and that radiates interior fire. The divine fire has come down to earth and will be with us until the end of time. This mystery, no mortal after John the Evangelist was able to translate it into human words with as much acumen and perspective as Thomas Aquinas. global theology. Punge lengua gloriossi Cosporis Mysterium sanguinisque pretiosi quem in mundi pretrium fructus ventri generosi Rex effuditi gentium (canya my tongue the mystery of the glorious body and of the Blood that the King of nations, son of the generous womb of a Mother, shed to rescue the world). My childhood friends were called Toñi Merceditas Rafita José Luis and my brother Javi. I remember the day before that day perfectly. It was a hot day. Toñi Rafita Merche José Luis Casado and I, while all the bells of the forty-odd churches in Segovia rang out gloriously, we played chain mail among the rocks of the Clamores River. There were still white snowfields in the mountains and it was hot. I remember grandfather Benjamín sitting on the terrace of that recently opened house in Valdevilla. He had brought a basket of sour cherries fresh from the orchard and white bread.

         -Here, son, you can still eat until twelve at night

         - Didn't I sin, grandpa?

         -No, but you have to be good and well commanded.

         -Yes.

That snack was an exquisite meal of the gods with a corrusco of the recently baked loaf by hand next to dear grandfather Benjamin who had lazily pulled his beret over his eyes to protect himself from the rays of Apollo that gilded the parapets of the Roman bridge and projected cracks lights between the leaves of the young acacia. After midnight you could not drink a glass of water and the norm of fasting was religiously observed in the Catholic Spain that I now yearn for and so much so that some felt scruples if they had inadvertently eaten some food and committed sacrilege. I woke up almost at dawn and the surprise was in the dining room: my first communion suit that had been custom made for me by Blas Carpintero, the tailor from Segovia of Jewish origin, by the way, and whose bald head I remember, his big nose and his expert fingers. and caressing when taking measurements. So loquacious and good person and some gold rings on his fingers that must have been worth a fortune. In those days the sartorial need of the alfayates was enough for a comfortable position. It was a white suit with a cape and embroidery. Everything was white and pure. A good cloak covers everything but that suit from my first communion that I sat on that didn't even cover up but rather showed a pure and happy child. White from top to bottom. White even the shoes: the bow tie, the vest, the shirt, the belt, the barrette, the belt loops. All. Mr. Casado and Mrs. Henar, Mercedita's parents, came to see the communion leave the house.

         Let's see if we get dirty huh.

And with them we set off on foot, a whole retinue of fifteen or twenty people because my parents, my grandfather Benja, my uncles and my brother Javi, who was dressed as a sailor and who received the first beating of my first communion, which was not his, accompanied me. Well, the only thing that occurred to him was to get into a puddle and put on his sailor suit. He started crying and saying:

         -I want to go first communion like my brother

         "Leave him, he's really stupid," my father said, giving him a little slap on the ass, but with how strong my father was and how fat his hand was from squaring artillery pieces in the camps, a caress of his was like confirmation from the bishop. When we arrived at the Claretian church, the atrium was full of families accompanying the communicants. Blessed children's fun.

         -The candle Have you brought the candle?

         -No.

The married man the man another of the good people who marked my childhood [was an Artillery brigade] was herding it to buy it at a chandlery. The chandlery abounded in Segovia at that time because we were Catholics to hammer and hammer and no secular culture.