NOR ANYTHING BAD

by

Mark Barkawitz 

    Outside, the fog had settled into a light mist.  It was nearly midnight, as I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head and walked with my hands in the pockets of my jeans.  The street was quiet.  Christmas lights twinkled on the fronts of houses.  At the end of the block, I opted for the most direct route—through the schoolyard—to the church where my former girlfriend worked as the organist.  Things hadn’t worked out for us. But it was Christmas Eve and I was lonely.  It was weird going back there for the first time in so long.  I hadn’t been in church in years.  My heart beat faster, as I weaved between two, tall buildings—like monoliths—that reached up, disappearing in the darkness of the night sky.

    Suddenly, the peal of a bell sounded from above—a singular, clear note resonating through the fog—followed by a chorus of other notes.  The not-so-distant church bells announced—it was midnight; Christmas had arrived. 

    I wasn’t really dressed for church.  So instead of going inside, I sat on the bus bench—like a hooded monk in the mist—across the street from the Gothic, cathedral-like building with its pointed arches, flying buttresses, and laughing gnomes.  I could hear her playing the pipe organ inside and the choir singing.  I imagined her long fingers reaching, pressing each key in a designed pattern of melodious harmony.  The tension lifted from my shoulders.  I let my lungs collapse themselves, then breathed in deeply, taking in, consuming each note she hung in the moist, night air.  I lifted my face towards the black sky—closed my eyes—and let its mist settle on my bare skin.  I don’t know if you could call it a religious experience, but everything suddenly—like an epiphany—became quite clear to me. 

    I don’t know how long I sat there, thinking, being.  But eventually the well-dressed parishioners began to pour out of the church and my former girlfriend stopped playing the organ.  I suddenly felt out of place on the bus bench—dressed more like a perp than a parishioner.  I didn’t belong there—amongst the faithful.  Besides, I somehow felt as if I’d already gotten what I needed that night right there on that bus bench.  And even though still alone, I was no longer lonely.  So I was neither disappointed nor anything bad when I walked away . . .