Non-Fiction
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You are getting ready for school, but it’s Sunday.
You’re not really sure what to wear, so you put on a polo and some khakis, like it’s any other school day, even though there hasn’t been a normal one in a week.
It’s April 22, 2012. You’re 17. You say goodbye to your 8-year-old sister.
She stays behind at Uncle Dennis and Aunt Sandy’s house with your younger cousins. Uncle Dennis drives you to a Meijer parking lot near your school, where more of your aunts, uncles, and older cousins are waiting.
There aren’t many words. You pile into as few cars as you can, and the van you end up in is packed with quiet relatives—everyone staring ahead, no one knowing exactly what to say or what to expect.
You are all preparing to stand in front of thousands of strangers, people who will pray the Rosary for your family.
Because one week ago, your dad was murdered in a home invasion.
Also, because your mom and your twin brother are still in comas, in the intensive care unit several miles away.
Your mother has started to open her eyes, but her jaw is wired shut. Your twin, Sal, hasn’t woken up yet, and the doctors can’t say if he ever will.
In the parking lot, you sit a little longer. Then you drive to the school. You’re escorted into the football stadium by members of the Moms and Dads Club, people who knew your parents. People who still do.
Normally, the stadium would be roaring, clamoring with spirited supporters screaming sports chants. But tonight, more than 4,000 people are sitting in a somber hush.
A line of folding chairs waits for your family. They’ve been set up at the edge of the field, facing the stands. You see your friends lined up beside a statue of the Virgin Mary, the one that only comes out for special occasions like graduation or Mass.
You look at the faces behind you. Some familiar. Most not. The news traveled fast. Bad news always does.
They’re all here for you.
You don’t want to be seen, so you pretend you’re just another body in the crowd. Just one more candle, one more prayer.
The sun begins to set. Your principal, Father Huber, walks onto the field with a microphone.
“Welcome, brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers,” he says. “We are gathered here to support the Cipriano and Trahan family in their time of need. I know it’s not just the Catholic Central community tonight. We have friends and family from across Metro Detroit. Thank you for being here for Sal and Tanner.”
He lets the silence stretch.
“Tonight, we will pray the Rosary together. We will storm Heaven with our prayers for Rose and Sal, who are in the care of the best doctors in the state. Please keep Bob’s spirit in your hearts. Now, let us begin.”
Two classmates step forward: Spencer and Joe, Sal’s baseball teammates. Each holds a Rosary. Spencer begins the prayer. His voice wavers at first but grows steadier as thousands more join him. Joe follows. Then four more classmates finish what they’ve begun.
When the final prayer is said, teachers begin to pass out candles. One by one, the crowd becomes a constellation.
You think: Sal—your family’s friendly pyromaniac—would’ve loved witnessing this much open flame all on his behalf.
As your family receives candles, the crowd forms a path down the road toward the front of the school, where another statue of Mary and Jesus stands waiting.
You cradle the flame in your hands and begin to walk. Twilight has taken the sky. The night is falling fast.
You are thankful for the many, many, many candles that light every face you pass. You see classmates such as Brandon, Connery, Jake, and also Farmington friends like Wesley, Abdullah, Zach.
For every face you recognize, there are five you don’t.
But they all hold your gaze. They all hold space. They’re watching with care. With grief. With reverence. You nod to each of them, hoping they feel the cavernous well of gratitude you carry inside you.
You arrive at the statue. Father Huber instructs your family to place your candles at its base. As more are added, the glow builds. A quiet hearth of prayers and grief and love.
Then Father Huber leads your family into the chapel. You are alone, finally. Just your family and him.
First, you thank your relatives. You know you wouldn’t be here without them. And you know your father is thankful for all of them, too.
Then you ask something no one is expecting.
You ask them to forgive your older brother, Tucker.
For killing your father. For breaking your family. For everything he’s done.
It’s the first time you’ve spoken of forgiveness. You know not everyone is ready. But you ask anyway.
You all join hands and pray one more Our Father together. You ask your dad for strength. Then, one by one, you hug each other and cry.
And outside the chapel, a sea of strangers and loved ones does the same.
Tanner is a twin brother from Michigan who enjoys painting, writing, and filmmaking. He graduated from the University of Notre Dame with a double major in Film and American Studies and then moved to Los Angeles where he first worked as a Writers’ PA and then became Assistant to the Showrunner on the Netflix show, Narcos: Mexico. He is now working as a freelance writer and illustrator who is always looking for more creative projects to be a part of so please let him know if you'd like to collaborate! Also, one time when he was little, he drank gasoline and had to go to the hospital where the doctor was about to induce vomiting by force-feeding him charcoal except he burped most of it up on his own so instead she just gave him a grape-flavored popsicle. Currently, he has been sober from gasoline for more than 27 years and only uses it for his car, his cooking, and occasionally his family’s leaf blower. You can find out more about Tanner at his website: tannercipriano.com