And then you go out the window.  Over the top of Nina’s high heels.  You see the squirrel in the tree and then you move on like you’re following something.  Some electrical cord.  Or a continual painted line.  And then you’re on a road.  A country road.  And it feels historical.  Churches in the distance.  Just two lanes—one going each way.  No other cars.  No road markers.  No speed limits.  And it must be late summer.  Early fall.  For the fields are bare.  Bales of hay rolled up gray and brown.  Looking like wooden wheels from tinker toys intermittently sprinkled across the field, giving you the feel of a chess board being played.  This seen not through windows.  You’re not driving in a car.  You’re walking.  But time sped up almost like you’ve seen all this in a memory and then rewound to fast forward. 

INT. A COUNTRY CATHOLIC CHURCH, GREEK ORTHODOX—MISSISSIPPI DAY

You go down the lines of pews.  Turn left at the altar, everything gold there, and face two confessional booths.  One of them with the curtain open.  Then the darkness of the booth.  In the red tones of the curtains.  Light through the wooden slot open.  And you see the shadow of Popovitch.  His balding white head.  Bent down—looking down.  His voice and the PRIEST—low whispers.

POPOVITCH

          Bless me father for I have sinned.

PRIEST

          When was the time of your last confession?

POPOVITCH

          24 years…

PRIEST

          Why so long?

POPOVITCH

Because I don’t believe in this.  I am here to confess for my daughter… 

PRIEST

(his voice now coming out younger—younger than Popovitch—in his question)

     Why don’t you believe?

POPOVITCH

Have you ever had the feeling to confide?  It’s strange when I feel it now.  It’s strange in who I choose to confide in.  Because it’s about other people.  At least that’s what you usually want to talk about.  Why someone bothers you.  And so then you try to find someone akin to your language.  You sense out someone you feel not so different from you, and you tell them.  You tell them about the differences in the person that bothered you.  And have you ever been that other person?  The person confided in?  You see it.  You see it all happen.  And maybe you’re even more akin to the person causing the offense…  Do you agree?  Do you say nothing to the judgment you’re faced with?  And how does this make you feel?  If you remember this when you want to confide something? 

PRIEST

We are all put in situations—my son.  The situation you posed is one way it could happen.  For instance, what if you do agree?  What do you feel then?  Perhaps some bond with the person that confided in you?  And what if  what they confide is not some insult?  Not some pain or injustice, or something to laugh at.  What if instead it’s about helping someone.  And someone just wanted to share that with you—indebting you in the same way.  To seeing the world with love.  And more, seeing that with the person that confided in you, and feeling that—feeling the love confirmed?

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