On Sundays and feast days, hundreds of people from miles around gather along this trail. Carved by the brothers in years of sweat and callouses, the trail winds through stands of hardwoods that tower so high the tops seem to meet the clouds. The faithful ascend the path of moss-covered stones station by station, reliving the agony of the crucifixion, until sunlight is filtered by a canopy of needles and leaves to a forest sanctuary where all you hear is the sound of your thoughts and the gurgle of an underground spring, rearing its head just enough to offer a cool drink and the promise of peace. Today, I have St. Anne, mother of Mary, patron of all who sacrifice themselves and their children for the good of the world, all to myself. This will be the perfect place to read my letter.I creak open the chapel door, and breathe in as the gloom envelopes me in a blanket of silence, my eyes gradually parting the darkened mist until I can make out the altar, her statue, and the tiny empty pews. I curl up in the rear pew, open the envelope, and feel a rush of warmth as my mother’s handwriting, shaky but still legible, reaches up to me. I can still see her pushing Aunt Georgie’s hand away when she tried to help with last year’s Christmas cards. “I may not walk so well, or see so well, but I still have plenty to say and by God, I will be the one saying it, if you don’t mind.” No one offered to help her with her writing after that. I squint to make out the scrawl, drinking in every line and swirl with the thirst of a thousands deserts. I can barely remember the sound of her voice, have to look at her picture every now and again to really remember her face, but now she is in front of me, speaking right to me. It feels nice.Things are good at home. Everyone is fine. Aunt Georgie has a new car, not a Mustang as I had suggested, but another station wagon. Habit, she said. Gary is at the top of his class; Freddie is dating more and studying less, but otherwise okay. Bea’s wedding is only two months away, and Carmel got engaged last week. Two weddings, and I won’t be at either one.Mom wants to know why Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving so early, as if I know. Everyone I ask just shrugs and says “because that’s when it is.” Then the litany of mother questions: are you eating okay, are you getting enough sleep, are you warm enough, have you made some more friends, are classes going well – I make a mental list for my next letter.Then the end. Too soon. And, as I feared, too painful. I had hoped she would let it go, but of course, she wouldn’t.“Happy birthday, Jack.” The name in writing looks strange. No one has called me Jack since I left home. “I know there won’t be a big celebration, but that doesn’t mean we don’t remember. I wish I could do more. But for now, keep doing your best and make the most of this chance you have been given. “ The scrawl is getting tired now. But she is heard loud and clear. “Love, Mom.”I look down at the letter. It was like staring at the big screen in the theatre when the movie was over, wishing for an encore until the usher comes to empty the seats. I hear the wind pick up against the ancient chapel windows, carrying voices from the trail with it. My eyes are burning, my insides are liquid, threatening to spill my loneliness and anger in front of everyone with a force that even St. Anne cannot help me contain. I stuff the letter in my pocket and slip through the chapel door, running outside not on the trail, where I may meet the voices but through the woods, tripping on rocks and roots in my haste and the growing darkness. My lungs burn and I run faster, willing the inferno to reduce to ashes the ache I feel for my mother and for me. I wish I could do more. My mother’s voice echoes in my head and I am furious, frustrated, saddened that she would even think she should. She is the one who is sick, who gives us a home and a family, while he is off halfway across the country never visiting, never writing, never even sending the money he promised the court he would. I wish I could choke him, choke somebody, choke myself for not being the kind of son he wanted, for loving the church when I knew he didn’t, for not loving business the way he does, for hating the thought of being anything like him. I keep running, away from the memories, away from my father, away from this blackness that no matter how hard I work and pray continues to boil inside me.Then I hear it. A low murmuring sound. A Hail Mary, not the way I said it, but like my grandmother would whisper it in her rocker. German. I peer into the gloom of the barn before me, backlit by the open door, until a shrouded figure appears in front of me. Too surprised to move, I hold my breath as the figure, rosary in hand, slowly reaches up and removes his hood.I exhale in relief. This is not a ghost or my imagination.“It is a difficult day,” Fr. Linder speaks carefully, as if he was lifting the lid off one of Fr. Aurelius’ beehives. We rarely see or speak to Fr. Linder except in class, where we are mesmerized by his stories and knowledge that bring Einstein’s theories alive in a way we could never imagine.My face reddens. “I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t …”He is still staring at the fading daylight, but his hand is raised. “God gives us difficult days as a classroom for our strength. There is no need to apologize for something you do not yet know.”We sit in silence. I squirm in its grip.“May I ask you a question?” My voice is back, desperate to change the subject. “Is it true you worked on the atomic bomb?”“Yes, John, it is true.”“Why would you want to work with something so dangerous?”Fr. Linder’s eyes brighten. “Oh, no, John. Not dangerous. Powerful… Not unlike the power of love. In the hands of goodness, so much enrichment. In the hands of evil, so much destruction. It is not the atom, or even love itself that is bad, but the frailties of those who would claim to control it.”I am back in our living room, hearing the door close, my mother’s voice, feeling the tears on my cheeks. It is best for everyone.“Fr. Linder,” I swallow against the blackness. “How do you split an atom?”The gloom is lifted by Fr. Linder’s smile, wider than I have ever seen it. “Very carefully.”And then Fr. Linder is gone, his black cassock gliding into the twilight.