On Sunday mornings, instead of taking a quick five-minute walk to church, I choose instead to make a 20-minute drive from my apartment in Bayside to Astoria to attend Immaculate Conception church. It's there that as a child I attended catechism classes, made my first communion, my confirmation, and attended all Sunday and Holy holiday masses.

Imac, as it's known to Astorian's, is where on Easter Sunday I would sit in my new pink or white Easter dress, surrounded by my neighborhood parishioners clad in their finest spring apparel. I'd listen, as the Priest's words of resurrection would be phased out by thoughts of the pending Easter egg hunt and chocolate bunnies waiting at home. It's where on Christmas Eve I would listen as the Priest's words of rebirth would be phased out by thoughts of the one gift Mom let us open before reading "Twas the Night Before Christmas".

Imac is an unassuming structure with intermittent tan and brown bricks that anchors the corner of Ditmars Blvd. and 29th. The towering steeple chimes out the commencement of mass, as a mother would call out to her children. Standing guard on the church steps are two large dark wood doors. Twin bronze bowls of holy water are situated on either side for the communal finger dip and quick up, down, left, right blessing.

The thick doors open upon an aisle that stretches out and flows up into a white marble alter. Suspended above is the crucified Jesus on a massive wooden cross. Aligning the aisle on both sides is a field of dark wooden pews.

It was there, on a warm Sunday afternoon in November 1985, that I arrived in a white stretch limo, my father by my side, as he walked me up the aisle. And it was there, on a cold Friday morning in January 2001, that I arrived in a black stretch limo with my mother and sisters, as we followed our father's casket up that same aisle.

Astoria is where I was born in 1962 and lived until 1989 when I purchased an apartment in Bayside. Since that time I've witnessed my predominantly Italian and Greek community grow into the melting pot relative of her larger cousin just over the Queensborough Bridge. Through the years I watched the metamorphosing of the neighborhood as the old passed the baton to the new. The corner Susan Terry's clothing store changed into Commerce Bank; Astoria Federal now attracts interest as a Starbuck's; the Ditmar's Butcher has been chopped up for a store that now boasts "everything for 99 cents" (as though that's a good thing).

Yet Astoria's past continues to be present in establishments with names that convey its charm and familiarity. Names like LaGuli's Pastry Shop, where the homemade Italian pastries are a holiday must have; Rose and Joe's Italian Bakery, where the pizza is square and the breadsticks are scrumptious; Frank's Pizza where the owners have changed but never the name; and Mike's Diner where you are bound to run into someone you know or probably will know eventually. Watching over all is Immaculate Conception church. The Matriarch of the neighborhood.

When I return to my church, I choose to sit in the pew adjacent to the Pieta statue; Astoria's replica of Michelangelo's Virgin Mother cradling her crucified Son. I watch as parishioners slide folded dollar bills into the metal offering box and light candles placed at the base of the statue. Below, a red cushioned ledge is faded with indentations of secrets and prayers exposed in silence.

Waiting for Mass to begin, I take notice of familiar faces. Rosemarie, the crossing guard from my elementary school. "Look how much you've grown," she gasps, though having just seen me the previous Sunday; Antoinette the proprietor of "Mama's Deli" who never failed to slip me a free piece of Bazooka; Frank, the church's veteran usher, who lives in the big corner house on my old block. Having never married, he spent his life caring for his mother until her death. Leaving him alone in that big corner house. And John, with the looks and spirit of Popeye the Sailor, albeit in a 92-year-old body.

"You're the prettiest girl on the block," he would tease with a pinch of my cheek. And whether 5 or 40, for that moment, I believed him.

I know I'll always make the 20-minute drive from Bayside to the neighborhood of my youth, Astoria; because I've learned that the best part of moving away, is coming back.