Nothing is impossible when I see Jesus on the cross at Daddy’s church, the Holy Name of Jesus, on Washington Boulevard. Daddy takes my sisters and me along when he wants to light a candle for Babcia, who’s very sick at home in bed, or, when he’s stuck, like an unoiled wheel, and mulls over altar boy days.

Mom never goes to Holy Name. She goes to mass at St. Mary’s and we go to St. Mary’s school with the Italian kids of the neighborhood. The Polish immigrants of Holy Name are too strange for Mom, and too much, too much, too much.

God of joy fills my heart at Daddy’s church. Daddy lights a red candle with a long stick match, makes the sign of the cross and bows his head in silent prayer. I make the sign of the cross, too, then take in the shimmers of foiled gold, glaze of marble, and the vaulted heaven ceiling where I wish I could be floating with the sweet angels.

Out on the street, in the bright Christmas sunshine, pink tissue paper hearts litter the steps, sidewalk, and gutter of the street.

“Daddy, what are these for?” I grab a handful and stuff the pink hearts into my jacket pocket.

“You know how people throw rice at a bride and groom as they leave the church? Well, at a wedding this morning, someone used these hearts instead of rice,” said Daddy.

“I’m going to do that when I get married,” I said, with hearts, in my Christmas pocket.