My Saints Among the Young: All Saints’ Day

Folk, rap, guitare, recto-tono, accent québécois, ‑Opera, ‑Bel canto, ‑Vibrato, ‑Tremolo, ‑Dramatic, ‑Agressive, ‑Shouting, ‑Theatrical, ‑percussion, ‑folkloric

We are on All Saints’ Day,
the day when all the saints, even those not proclaimed by the Church, are celebrated.

I could well speak to you of my aunt Yvette Bélanger,
of my grandmother Angéline Lacombe.
But I especially wish to speak of the Saints whom I esteem,
whom I love as my own sons,
those you have never heard of,
and most of whom died young,
having done harm to no one.

First, my favorite Saint: Carlo Acutis, died at fifteen.
Rocco Silvolella, died at fifteen of cancer.
My football player, Reece Kelly, fifteen,
and his brother Liam Kelly, seventeen.

Poor Jediah Hall, suicidal at sixteen,
taken back into the arms of Jesus.
Christopher Allen De Noyer, murdered by his stepfather
and buried beneath the kitchen floor at sixteen.

Good Benjamin Teague, died at seventeen.
Jeremy Page, seventeen.
Good Jordan Demay, deceived and dead at seventeen.
Joshua Page, died at eighteen,
the brother of Jérémy, dead in the same accident.

Nathaniel Kayne Finley, died at eighteen,
a martyr of illness, so courageous.
Luke McAteer, who took his own life
and had the time to say
that he wanted to return to Jesus at eighteen.

Théo Hayez, died falling from a cliff at eighteen,
carried away by the sea.
Jacob Hendrick, ravaged by drugs at seventeen.
Abakar Kazbekov, fallen from his apartment at eighteen,
a hockey player, far from his loved ones.

Connor Marron, athlete from Ireland, died at nineteen.
Eli Falfreyman, nineteen, died in the players’ room, in hockey.
Keith M. William, young soldier, died at nineteen.
My poor Patrick Choinard, who took his own life at twenty.

Sam Berry Shear, twenty.
Christopher King, English soldier, died in Afghanistan at twenty.
Piotr Vladimirovitch Terechonok, soldier, died at twenty.
Sam, my sweet Samuel Bernier, sick and dead at twenty.

Lane Watkins, good Canadian soldier, died at twenty.
Nolan Lieubray, died at twenty in a car accident,
so proud to come to Quebec,
and who never could.

Curtis McCormick, twenty.
Rodion Amirov, hockey player struck down by cancer at twenty.
Robin Major, took his life at twenty, in the arms of Jesus.

My good Pat, Patrick Lormand, died in Afghanistan at twenty-one.
Nodar Kumaritashvili, died at the Olympics at twenty-one,
thrown from his luge.

Young soldier David Gonzales, twenty-one.
Buddy, so devoted, Weston Allan Miller, died at twenty-one.
Claude Gressart, died at twenty-one in the First World War.
Dominik Prosinaki, a martyr of autism, died at twenty-one.

My good hiking athlete Léo Du Fort,
died at twenty-two in the Adirondacks.
Riley Valcin, a model for his family,
died at work at twenty-two.

Thomas Émile Joseph Welch, victim of post-traumatic syndrome,
died at twenty-two.
Terry Fox, a twenty-two-year-old hero, died of cancer.
Volodymyr Androschuk (Vova), died at twenty-two in Ukraine.

My good Ryan Knauss, the last American soldier
to die in Afghanistan, at twenty-three.
My good Simon Longtin, Canadian soldier, died at twenty-three,
as did Jonathan Couturier, killed in Kandahar.

Roory Deagan, twenty-three, drowned.
Ilan Halini, tortured and left naked near a railway track
because he was Jewish, at twenty-two.

Daniel Lim, died in Afghanistan at twenty-three.
My two good hockey players,
best friends Joseph (Joey) Birolini, twenty-three,
and Billy William Hickey, twenty-three, killed in a car crash.

Jacques Bachant, died in a combat plane over Germany
on his last scheduled mission, at twenty-three.

My gentle Christopher Lavoie, firefighter,
drowned at twenty-three during a rescue mission.

My great Ryan Dorsey Johnston, died accidentally,
falling from a bridge at twenty-four.
My good musician, a ray of sunlight in church,
died at twenty-four: Billy William Charles Walsh.

Drew Swan, victim of fentanyl at twenty-four.
Lee Rigby, martyred, died at twenty-five.
Charles Paty, in the Breton Resistance, killed by the Germans at eighteen.

Matt Sheppard, tortured and left for dead in the desert at twenty-one.
Brian James Collier, died at twenty-four in Afghanistan.
Angus Cloud, died at twenty-five.

Michael Fragilio, died at twenty-six from dystrophy.
Gérard Castonguay, victim of tuberculosis at twenty-six.
Maxime Cusson, died at twenty-six in a car accident.
Jayson Colin, shot dead at twenty-six in Montréal-Nord.

Andrew Bruce, died from post-traumatic shock
and suicide, at twenty-six.

My good soldier and father Matt Tomkiewicz,
in the crash of his military plane at twenty-seven.
Devon Starkey, died at twenty-seven, victim of drugs.

My good Dominic Remillard, victim of drugs at twenty-eight.
My good policeman, killed while trying to help, murdered at twenty-eight:
Greg Pierzchala.

All dead so young,
all saints,
unrecognized,
whose names will not be spoken—
because they are boys,
and we are hard
on our good boys who die too soon.

Saints who belong
to the silent ranks of victims—
of war, of illness, of accident,
or of discrimination.

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We are on All Saints’ Day, the day when all the saints, even those not proclaimed by the Church, are celebrated. I could well speak to you of my aunt Yvette Bélanger, of my grandmother Angéline Lacombe. But I especially wish to speak of the Saints whom I esteem, whom I love as my own sons, those you have never heard of, and most of whom died young, having done harm to no one. First, my favorite Saint: Carlo Acutis, died at fifteen. Rocco Silvolella, died at fifteen of cancer. My football player, Reece Kelly, fifteen, and his brother Liam Kelly, seventeen. Poor Jediah Hall, suicidal at sixteen, taken back into the arms of Jesus. Christopher Allen De Noyer, murdered by his stepfather and buried beneath the kitchen floor at sixteen. Good Benjamin Teague, died at seventeen. Jeremy Page, seventeen. Good Jordan Demay, deceived and dead at seventeen. Joshua Page, died at eighteen, the brother of Jérémy, dead in the same accident. Nathaniel Kayne Finley, died at eighteen, a martyr of illness, so courageous. Luke McAteer, who took his own life and had the time to say that he wanted to return to Jesus at eighteen. Théo Hayez, died falling from a cliff at eighteen, carried away by the sea. Jacob Hendrick, ravaged by drugs at seventeen. Abakar Kazbekov, fallen from his apartment at eighteen, a hockey player, far from his loved ones. Connor Marron, athlete from Ireland, died at nineteen. Eli Falfreyman, nineteen, died in the players’ room, in hockey. Keith M. William, young soldier, died at nineteen. My poor Patrick Choinard, who took his own life at twenty. Sam Berry Shear, twenty. Christopher King, English soldier, died in Afghanistan at twenty. Piotr Vladimirovitch Terechonok, soldier, died at twenty. Sam, my sweet Samuel Bernier, sick and dead at twenty. Lane Watkins, good Canadian soldier, died at twenty. Nolan Lieubray, died at twenty in a car accident, so proud to come to Quebec, and who never could. Curtis McCormick, twenty. Rodion Amirov, hockey player struck down by cancer at twenty. Robin Major, took his life at twenty, in the arms of Jesus. My good Pat, Patrick Lormand, died in Afghanistan at twenty-one. Nodar Kumaritashvili, died at the Olympics at twenty-one, thrown from his luge. Young soldier David Gonzales, twenty-one. Buddy, so devoted, Weston Allan Miller, died at twenty-one. Claude Gressart, died at twenty-one in the First World War. Dominik Prosinaki, a martyr of autism, died at twenty-one. My good hiking athlete Léo Du Fort, died at twenty-two in the Adirondacks. Riley Valcin, a model for his family, died at work at twenty-two. Thomas Émile Joseph Welch, victim of post-traumatic syndrome, died at twenty-two. Terry Fox, a twenty-two-year-old hero, died of cancer. Volodymyr Androschuk (Vova), died at twenty-two in Ukraine. My good Ryan Knauss, the last American soldier to die in Afghanistan, at twenty-three. My good Simon Longtin, Canadian soldier, died at twenty-three, as did Jonathan Couturier, killed in Kandahar. Roory Deagan, twenty-three, drowned. Ilan Halini, tortured and left naked near a railway track because he was Jewish, at twenty-two. Daniel Lim, died in Afghanistan at twenty-three. My two good hockey players, best friends Joseph (Joey) Birolini, twenty-three, and Billy William Hickey, twenty-three, killed in a car crash. Jacques Bachant, died in a combat plane over Germany on his last scheduled mission, at twenty-three. My gentle Christopher Lavoie, firefighter, drowned at twenty-three during a rescue mission. My great Ryan Dorsey Johnston, died accidentally, falling from a bridge at twenty-four. My good musician, a ray of sunlight in church, died at twenty-four: Billy William Charles Walsh. Drew Swan, victim of fentanyl at twenty-four. Lee Rigby, martyred, died at twenty-five. Charles Paty, in the Breton Resistance, killed by the Germans at eighteen. Matt Sheppard, tortured and left for dead in the desert at twenty-one. Brian James Collier, died at twenty-four in Afghanistan. Angus Cloud, died at twenty-five. Michael Fragilio, died at twenty-six from dystrophy. Gérard Castonguay, victim of tuberculosis at twenty-six. Maxime Cusson, died at twenty-six in a car accident. Jayson Colin, shot dead at twenty-six in Montréal-Nord. Andrew Bruce, died from post-traumatic shock and suicide, at twenty-six. My good soldier and father Matt Tomkiewicz, in the crash of his military plane at twenty-seven. Devon Starkey, died at twenty-seven, victim of drugs. My good Dominic Remillard, victim of drugs at twenty-eight. My good policeman, killed while trying to help, murdered at twenty-eight: Greg Pierzchala. All dead so young, all saints, unrecognized, whose names will not be spoken— because they are boys, and we are hard on our good boys who die too soon. Saints who belong to the silent ranks of victims— of war, of illness, of accident, or of discrimination.

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