At the temple, there is a poem called "Loss" carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read Loss, only feel it.
Children aren't supposed to die.
“Miss.”
She pulls at my sleeve with her baby hands. She is little, with blue December eyes and an old- lady frown. “Miss.”
“Yes?”
“Are angels real?”
I can’t answer. I wrap my arms around me and let the smell of the church envelope my face. I breathe in the dancing candles and the sorrow of the trembling figures shrouded in black. The priest’s soft fingers as they caress dusty pages, the dirty red carpet as the little girl stomps with her lively boot like a pony.
She is persistent.
“What do they look like?”
I shrug. The little boys standing by the doors in their cream silk robes emit a sudden wave of thin sound. Their shoulders shrug with mine as they breathe in simultaneously and let the song tumble out. I avoid her question, so I think.
A solis ortus cardine
She pulls at my sleeve with her baby hands. She is little, with blue December eyes and an old- lady frown. “Miss.”
“Yes?”
“Are angels real?”
I can’t answer. I wrap my arms around me and let the smell of the church envelope my face. I breathe in the dancing candles and the sorrow of the trembling figures shrouded in black. The priest’s soft fingers as they caress dusty pages, the dirty red carpet as the little girl stomps with her lively boot like a pony.
She is persistent.
“What do they look like?”
I shrug. The little boys standing by the doors in their cream silk robes emit a sudden wave of thin sound. Their shoulders shrug with mine as they breathe in simultaneously and let the song tumble out. I avoid her question, so I think.
A solis ortus cardine
Adusque terrae limitem
Christum canamus Principem,
Natum Maria Virgine.
Latin. They’re singing in Latin.
The little girl sighs and slumps down to the floor, leaning against a polished stone bench.
“Why do they make the carpets red?” Her hands curl like an eagle’s and I watch her silently. “I get blue, or green, but why red?”
Deum de Deo,
Latin. They’re singing in Latin.
The little girl sighs and slumps down to the floor, leaning against a polished stone bench.
“Why do they make the carpets red?” Her hands curl like an eagle’s and I watch her silently. “I get blue, or green, but why red?”
Deum de Deo,
lumen de lumine,
Parturit virgo mater,
Deum verum, genitum, non factum.
“She was my sister.” She gazes at the procession and I bite my lip.
“How come angels forget?” I twist my fingers nervously and hide my eyes behind my hair. Surely I must reprimand her. Tell her she is wrong, angels never forget. After all, she is so small. Only a baby.
But she is an adult now. Pain already stains her little face like a coffee splash on a puppy. And how can I tell her she is wrong, how can I contradict her, when the coffin is so, so small?
“She was my sister.” She gazes at the procession and I bite my lip.
“How come angels forget?” I twist my fingers nervously and hide my eyes behind my hair. Surely I must reprimand her. Tell her she is wrong, angels never forget. After all, she is so small. Only a baby.
But she is an adult now. Pain already stains her little face like a coffee splash on a puppy. And how can I tell her she is wrong, how can I contradict her, when the coffin is so, so small?
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