The Old Church Revisited

The space is smaller than what was measured by memory, the stained glass windows much less vibrant compared to what glowed brightly in the light of back then. The pews have been worn down to bare wood by sliding bums and where arms have rested or fidgeted in prayer. I genuflect, prompted by some remnant of habit, out of a sense of respect, then take a seat. Peeling paint sheets the walls not in wear, but in neglect. In places an amber sheen coats where candle smoke has left a nicotine like stain after decades of petitions. I wonder how many were fulfilled. The brass candle rack has a two stubs that sit like the last remaining teeth in empty gums. The white marble altar that once seemed to soar to a height scraping the very hem of heaven now could be scaled by a modest ladder. Six years old, I stood before it in terror. Hidden away within its chambers behind golden doors there was a God who could send me to hell. I had nowhere to hide. Surely, no God would want to be here now in such a place. Everything in this building speaks of an absence, a sad vacancy that was once filled with a weighted presence whether real or imagined. There are no flowers to sweeten the air or whispered prayers from a visiting soul to sanctify the quiet. And yet there are relics here, echoes that bypass the ear, shadows that seem to reach up out of the silence like extended hands pulling at my mind. I am not sure whether it is the clutch of the drowning wanting to be saved or the other way around.