There’s no wifi in this church.
I’m sitting in the space that will house my mom’s final party. So many people are coming to see her, I predict a standing-room only crowd will fill up its pews.
I don’t want to help out. I don’t want to arrange flowers, or set up the audio-visual system. I want to sit here and write. I want to get these feelings out. But where can I put them? Is there any room for sentiments of loss and pain inside this emotionally charged temple?
So everyone respects this. They don’t make me move. They come and sit in the pew behind me, and fan me using pages from bibles. I take a photo here and there. I watch the raw energy in the room appear like white light on my camera lens.
A few minutes ago, Chanterelle and I explored steeple. We climbed up a long iron spiral staircase and eyed the huge bell, wondering what would happen if we rang it.
Let the day go on. Let the love come out. Let old relationships be rekindled. Let a wonderful woman be celebrated.
They told me I didn’t need to speak if I didn’t want to. They told me they didn’t want me to feel pressured.
“This is the one time I get to talk to my mom and know for absolute certain she’s listening.”
Is what I said in response.
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