unto day

Have you ever smelled a priest? He’d have to be close enough, of course. Not on top of you, not even necessarily touching you, but close. Doesn’t matter if he’s wearing vestments or street clothes, the smell’s the same. It’s like mildew, but softer. Mildew with a gentle breeze passing through it, maybe. Like he does his laundry himself and he’s not very good at it. Maybe he never learned how to hang his clothes correctly, or maybe he just doesn’t care, or maybe he doesn’t own enough clothing to wait for any given load of laundry to dry completely, so he wears his clothes damp. They all smell that way, the priests. I’ve noticed it over the years. The first time I noticed it, my head was in the bushes, puking up vodka and Doritos and Bud Select beer at the feet of St. Francis. I smelled him first, Father Lou. I smelled him before he bent down beside me, held my hair back, his fingers getting soiled by vomit particulates and sweat, my vomit splashing up onto his worn sneakers, which the kids, myself included, used to all mock him for. Age and absent-mindedness, that dull smell of settled mold. That’s what it was. I don’t know why, but it comforted me. In that moment, snot streaming down my nose, it did comfort me.