((The title is only due to the fact that I've attempted to write this scene approximately... too many times. And by this, usually by thinking about it and never even getting more than a couple of sentences in. And all of those sentences weren't what I was going for. Let's hope these are.))
The young man and his father took to the very last row, for the rest of the sanctuary was packed. Weaving to the front would have proven difficult for the two, though the spaces between each segment of seats was wide enough for their passage. Yet the air within seemed to suffocate them.
Surely it was not the people within. Not the throng of voices singing honestly of praises to their God, of their aching sin and pleading forgiveness for the falls they had taken. Not the youth with cellphones beneath their parents' eyes, and not the young and old with eyes aimed to the ceiling, or closed with deep emotion. Their air seemed breathable, even if thick. It wasn't with the choir and their electric guitar and piano. Not with the woman soloist, her rich voice mingling with the near-200 at the foot of the three-stepped platform. It wasn't in the powerfully read verses of love and "life-in-the-next." When all sat back down, it wasn't the pastor's collective greeting or his request of the offering. It wasn't in the band standing again, then the man proceeding to give his message of "Keeping One's Eyes Heavenward."
No, it was in his face. His eyes. The familiarity.
It was in the seats, the rafters high above, the lights and where they aimed. It was the few familiar faces in the crowd. It was the kindness from the ushers, the greeting-one-another's before "worship". The smiles that seemed genuine, and even moreso, those that seemed forced.
Such things rendered the men to silent tears, in the back, beneath the balcony. Such a world that wasn't theirs, perhaps not yet, perhaps not ever, that the man in the front with his light green shirt and dark green tie and his black dress pants. His little microphone, trying to give a congregation hope.
He acknowledge pain and loss and grief; "But ultimately, there is Joy in Christ! This life is merely temporary..."
---
"We should go to church today," the older man said to his son, facing his window, the son just behind him.
The young man looked at the floor. Perhaps they should go. They'd gone quite a few times near the end... they were the only people who said that they could make it. They had their little groups "pray for them."
"I... I don't know. Maybe," he murmured.
"It's been... a long time."
"Yes. Very long."
---
They'd dressed in black that time before this one. They had worn it, dark hair natural on the son, and then suit jackets and black pants and shoes, the only thing light being his father's skin and hair. The rest had dressed in a similar fashion. And the songs were just as bright and beautiful, but there were merely more tears than this.
Nearly a year had past. Each man felt the date pressing upon him, like a boulder on his chest. They had gone out of duty; neither had been taught this as the absolute, appropriate response, but they had believed it was, at least, this morning they had. But the place seemed to hold less answers than hoped for. It only reminded each of unhealed wounds.
That same man at the very front of the large room had delivered a similar message the last time they had attended. Why had they come again, this family of two, once three? Bleak, it was, but each felt it shouldn't have been. The hope that those around them felt, it should have reached them also.
"...with that knowledge, I know I will see her again, my little girl..." the man in front also, nearly, brought to tears. As he shared with them his personal story, connecting so deeply with all who felt loss. But were not lost, as he had said.
The young man and his father, however connected to the man in front, in that they had also experienced loss, they failed to understand his entire assurance. So uncompromising and yet so genuine he seemed standing on that short platform with his tiny microphone. And the man and his son did not perceive the faces of the others around them.
---
"Mr. Pax, it's been quite a while since you've been here. We're so glad you could make it this Sunday," a man waiting for his wife told the other, the man in his chair, waiting for his son standing outside the building, swallowing their pain pills and lighting his second-ever cigarette.
"Yes. It has been a while. We're sorry we haven't been... here... we've just_"
"I understand_"
And for a moment, the man may have believed it so,
"_your health is not..."
"No, not... quite well. Nor Damir's. But... well, we decided it would be a good... morning to attend."
He hesitated with his use of the word "good".
"Yes, yes, that's quite alright."
A woman with straight black hair, a young boy asleep in one arm and swiftly capturing the hand of a small child about to yet again chase after a toy, smiled nervously at the man before Mr. Pax.
"It looks like it's about to go," the man said, with a small smile which suggested the man before him understood his urgent plight. And the other father did his best to smile back.
The other took to his wife and children, scooping up the toddling girl, who reached toward the floor. Her mother swiftly swept up the toy and handed it to her, managing to leave the little boy asleep.
---
The younger man felt nauseous. There was nothing good about these things, other than their ability to kill. And if he were to die, he'd rather die very, very quickly. So he ignored all the unpleasant responses, the glares, the glances, the concern, of the passing individuals of the churchgoers leaving their building, wishing to finish this once and then to never smoke again. It was not "for him", he supposed. He was not one to socially experiment, and he was not longing for either disdain or worry; rather, he simply found himself apathetic. Dulled and numbed, which he now preferred.
Eventually, he opened the door for his father and they proceeded to their vehicle. When they arrived at home, he looked at the near-full pack of cigarettes and regretted their minimal use. He wanted to throw them away. He wanted to tell them that he didn't need their brand of airless, pungent death, but he knew that someone else would put them to use. Their destructive use.
---
When he returned home early that morning, from the endless, wild night, he set the pack on the bench he had once fallen asleep on with a friend. Where he'd told her of his once-newfound, now permanent, grief. He laid it there for whomever, hoping "whomever" wouldn't be a child. With this, he went home to sleep two hours, to wake up and clean floors.
The young man and his father took to the very last row, for the rest of the sanctuary was packed. Weaving to the front would have proven difficult for the two, though the spaces between each segment of seats was wide enough for their passage. Yet the air within seemed to suffocate them.
Surely it was not the people within. Not the throng of voices singing honestly of praises to their God, of their aching sin and pleading forgiveness for the falls they had taken. Not the youth with cellphones beneath their parents' eyes, and not the young and old with eyes aimed to the ceiling, or closed with deep emotion. Their air seemed breathable, even if thick. It wasn't with the choir and their electric guitar and piano. Not with the woman soloist, her rich voice mingling with the near-200 at the foot of the three-stepped platform. It wasn't in the powerfully read verses of love and "life-in-the-next." When all sat back down, it wasn't the pastor's collective greeting or his request of the offering. It wasn't in the band standing again, then the man proceeding to give his message of "Keeping One's Eyes Heavenward."
No, it was in his face. His eyes. The familiarity.
It was in the seats, the rafters high above, the lights and where they aimed. It was the few familiar faces in the crowd. It was the kindness from the ushers, the greeting-one-another's before "worship". The smiles that seemed genuine, and even moreso, those that seemed forced.
Such things rendered the men to silent tears, in the back, beneath the balcony. Such a world that wasn't theirs, perhaps not yet, perhaps not ever, that the man in the front with his light green shirt and dark green tie and his black dress pants. His little microphone, trying to give a congregation hope.
He acknowledge pain and loss and grief; "But ultimately, there is Joy in Christ! This life is merely temporary..."
---
"We should go to church today," the older man said to his son, facing his window, the son just behind him.
The young man looked at the floor. Perhaps they should go. They'd gone quite a few times near the end... they were the only people who said that they could make it. They had their little groups "pray for them."
"I... I don't know. Maybe," he murmured.
"It's been... a long time."
"Yes. Very long."
---
They'd dressed in black that time before this one. They had worn it, dark hair natural on the son, and then suit jackets and black pants and shoes, the only thing light being his father's skin and hair. The rest had dressed in a similar fashion. And the songs were just as bright and beautiful, but there were merely more tears than this.
Nearly a year had past. Each man felt the date pressing upon him, like a boulder on his chest. They had gone out of duty; neither had been taught this as the absolute, appropriate response, but they had believed it was, at least, this morning they had. But the place seemed to hold less answers than hoped for. It only reminded each of unhealed wounds.
That same man at the very front of the large room had delivered a similar message the last time they had attended. Why had they come again, this family of two, once three? Bleak, it was, but each felt it shouldn't have been. The hope that those around them felt, it should have reached them also.
"...with that knowledge, I know I will see her again, my little girl..." the man in front also, nearly, brought to tears. As he shared with them his personal story, connecting so deeply with all who felt loss. But were not lost, as he had said.
The young man and his father, however connected to the man in front, in that they had also experienced loss, they failed to understand his entire assurance. So uncompromising and yet so genuine he seemed standing on that short platform with his tiny microphone. And the man and his son did not perceive the faces of the others around them.
---
"Mr. Pax, it's been quite a while since you've been here. We're so glad you could make it this Sunday," a man waiting for his wife told the other, the man in his chair, waiting for his son standing outside the building, swallowing their pain pills and lighting his second-ever cigarette.
"Yes. It has been a while. We're sorry we haven't been... here... we've just_"
"I understand_"
And for a moment, the man may have believed it so,
"_your health is not..."
"No, not... quite well. Nor Damir's. But... well, we decided it would be a good... morning to attend."
He hesitated with his use of the word "good".
"Yes, yes, that's quite alright."
A woman with straight black hair, a young boy asleep in one arm and swiftly capturing the hand of a small child about to yet again chase after a toy, smiled nervously at the man before Mr. Pax.
"It looks like it's about to go," the man said, with a small smile which suggested the man before him understood his urgent plight. And the other father did his best to smile back.
The other took to his wife and children, scooping up the toddling girl, who reached toward the floor. Her mother swiftly swept up the toy and handed it to her, managing to leave the little boy asleep.
---
The younger man felt nauseous. There was nothing good about these things, other than their ability to kill. And if he were to die, he'd rather die very, very quickly. So he ignored all the unpleasant responses, the glares, the glances, the concern, of the passing individuals of the churchgoers leaving their building, wishing to finish this once and then to never smoke again. It was not "for him", he supposed. He was not one to socially experiment, and he was not longing for either disdain or worry; rather, he simply found himself apathetic. Dulled and numbed, which he now preferred.
Eventually, he opened the door for his father and they proceeded to their vehicle. When they arrived at home, he looked at the near-full pack of cigarettes and regretted their minimal use. He wanted to throw them away. He wanted to tell them that he didn't need their brand of airless, pungent death, but he knew that someone else would put them to use. Their destructive use.
---
When he returned home early that morning, from the endless, wild night, he set the pack on the bench he had once fallen asleep on with a friend. Where he'd told her of his once-newfound, now permanent, grief. He laid it there for whomever, hoping "whomever" wouldn't be a child. With this, he went home to sleep two hours, to wake up and clean floors.
No comments:
Post a Comment