Cynthia Andrews

The church is dark and
quiet except for a woman who
looks to be about ninety years
old, kneeling and sobbing and
whispering prayers to the icon of
the Madonna, though it’s only
a copy of the original back in
Poland. What does it matter
anyway? It’s only a month
after the attack and all I can
remember is what a
damnable long way it
was to walk from the
subway to the Towers
and I was always late!
It is the church where my
Mother first taught me to pray.
It is where I received First Communion,
got married in a solemn ceremony,
and cried with all of my classmates
after we had long graduated
from the school, when our Monsignor
suddenly died at eighty-three.
I am back today for just a minute
or two. I bury my face in my
hands and join in the cries
and sobs to the Madonna.
When I decide to leave the
sudden harsh light of the outside
world attacks my eyes as I
open the door, so I stay a
little longer in the front
chapel where the angel
statues offer solace to      
tired travellers.

Issue 29
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