Surprise Vigil

More about Surprise Vigil

You said you’d die by fifty,
a family curse, you joked,
and laughed it off with a tortilla in hand,
refusing the burden of statistics.
But you were off by a decade,
not even forty.

You blessed the undocumented
with your round, unhurried love,
translating mercy between English and fear,
disarming ICE with your Latin charm
and bouncer’s girth—
the clerical collar your password.

You were growing into your role,
they said. And also a boy at heart,
posting from Comic-Con,
debating Marvel versus DC,
quoting wrestling like scripture.
Baby Yoda sat on your desk—
you were a saint of small joys.

Hundreds file past your family in black,
murmuring your name
as prayer beads slip through fingers.
This year has been cruel enough,
and now, to lose a bright star.
Flyers on diabetes circle the crowd,
your family’s warning,
their grief turned public mercy.

A priest speaks of mysteries,
his voice thin against
the guitars and weeping
that try to sing you home.

And I see you above us all,
smiling, swaying in rhythm,
taking one last selfie
with your people in the frame,
every candle catching your grin.