This is it, I thought. This is how we’re going to die — a fire inside a church on Greek Easter in Astoria.

My parents and I watched in horror as the priest walked down the aisle holding out two giant bundles of lit candles, one in each ham-hock hand. The people in the pews lunged, trying to get their candles lit directly from him. For good luck? Who knows.

Large men in leather jackets jostled. The cologne and perfume were overwhelming. Mom smelled burning hair.