Lost

Karen sat in the small pews, close to the side exit of church. A statue of the Virgin stood in front of a stained-glass window, her hand held up in a sign of peace. A flower arrangement rested beneath her feet.

It was during that lull in the mass when the collection was taken and the gifts presented, and joining the choir was the only way to participate.

Karen was never good at singing.

She bent forward and rested her head in her hands as though in prayer. She tried to feel something. Anything. She exhaled slowly.

Nothing had died inside her, she realized as she poked at the hallow space that had once felt like water brimming from a pail full of jumping fish. There was just no response—the water had gone down, the fish quit leaping. Like a seal had been placed over the pail or a non-urgent phone call that went unanswered.

Silence. Muteness. Nothing left to hear but quiet that was nearly painful—a ghost-pain, like a limb that hurt after its loss. But how could nothingness hurt? Especially something that was originally intangible—now so far gone that it echoed only like a remembered dream.

She glanced up briefly as the priest accepted the offering, wondering why she keep coming. Had she not shunned all those past religion classes and her mother’s badgering? She wanted to blame guilt, but the silence swallowed even that. The music ended, and she stood with the congregation. Faith may die, she thought, but habits remained stubborn.