The smoky sputter of burning wax. The golden light ringing bowed heads like glowing halos. The sting of incense wafting from the main altar—hundreds of yards away—where evening mass reaches a crescendo. The intonation of millions of prayers, seven hundred years’ worth, reverberates in the cavernous, vibrating enclave.
You listen, knees against the stool, fingers laced together on the rail.
Dive in, again today, as you have every day since disaster struck. Add to the swirling mix.
When you finish, fall back into your wooden pew.