Eleven
MUCH TO MY DISAPPOINTMENT, Dan wasn’t at 4:30 p.m. Saturday Vigil Mass.
He wasn’t at 8 a.m. Sunday Mass.
And, he isn’t at 10:30 a.m. Mass with his family.
All the other Conways are here, in their traditional pew in the back—chosen to spare other parishioners the often rambunctious antics of four-year-old twins Maximillian and John Paul, who, even though named for a martyr and a saintly Pope, are not really on my short list for canonization in the future. Catherine, brown-haired and brown-eyed like her mother, is sitting still, focused on the Mass, taking it all in. She’ll be receiving her First Communion next year when she’s seven, and I’m sure she’s making a careful study of the proceedings to prepare. Miriam has sleeping one-year-old Andrew in her arms, her face inscrutable as
