Fragments

It used to be a church. I could tell by the vaulted ceilings and crumbling pews, the remnants of a once grand temple. But between then and now I fear it’d had a conversation with something holy and it hadn’t ended well. The windows were blown out and the arches were sinking. The candles had long since become pools of wax, leaving the shadows to haunt spaces they’d only ever envied before. But I was not here to reprimand the architecture nor the state of disrepair in which it had fallen. I was here for the figure pleading on the pulpit. 

A million fragments lay glittering in his lap like rubies, red and raw as a bleeding heart. His hair fell across his eyes, his skin was pale, but his clothes were pristine. He was but a boy wearing the face of a man. 

Holding my dress still in my arms like a sleeping baby, I marched down the aisle with thoughts only for he who lay ahead. My unwavering gait sent my hair flowing down my back like a veil. The echo of my procession deafened the hollow space as I moved to ascend the dais. With every step, the floorboards announced me until at last I lay foot upon the purlieu of the wreckage. And then I erased the threshold with one assured step and dropped into a kneel before him, becoming one with the shrapnel. My hands fell away and at last my full skirts came tumbling to the floor like a sigh of relief. Upon the decaying planks cascaded the shards I’d been hiding inside. Only a breath away then, I could see the broken glass reflected in his frightened eyes and the caution written into the space between his brows. The symphony of emotions on his face outplaying the one at our feet. Soon caution turned to curiosity as his eyes shone their attention on all the places our broken pieces fell like stars and fit together. They traced lines across the floor and onto my flowing gown. Up and up they traced until, at last, they found mine.

For a suspended breath, stillness beheld us in its white ballroom. Then, all at once the sharp sound of clinking fell away and the fragments settled around us like a nest. It was just us three then… me, him, and the silence. The warm press of it danced tauntingly between us, but remained still untouched. Questions formed in his eyes and on his lips, but never departed them. Somewhere behind the shades of color in his gaze was the distinct silver glint of hope shining its light against the shadows of fear. There were as many words I could’ve said then as fragments at my feet, but alas I said nothing at all. I met the doubts painting his face with a smile, for I was not afraid.

I grabbed his praying hands between my own and pressed our foreheads together. Upon the pulpit we lay like a mirror reflection connected by a single pair of hands, as I led him into a new prayer, a prayer of our own. And like flame igniting the dark, that which had been broken, became holy again.