Torn. Torn. Torn. I reach for the church library, but my feet are dry cement on the stone floor. I resign myself to the pew. Desperate prayers mumbled under breath. Please. Please. Please.
A gentle voice. “You okay if I lock you in? You can just push out the church doors, whenever you’re ready.” I’m not brave enough for honesty. I’m not brave enough for anything. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thank you Father,” I manage. Don’t go. Please don’t let me go. “Good job serving today,” he tells me on his way out.
I try to calculate how many times you can meet with your priest before he gets sick of you. It’s been about five weeks. Is every five weeks too much? Maybe not. I won’t let myself find out.
Footsteps out of the church, then nothing. Everyone scatters back to their own world after coffee hour. The beautiful Gothic building is all mine. Stunning arches and stained glass windows that almost let me forget.
I do go, eventually. The cats need litter. Last night’s dishes are waiting for me. Maybe I’ll be braver next Sunday.

















