The Church Windows Are Fogging Up

When I was little, we played a game with our hands: here’s the church, here’s The steeple, open the doors, and see all the people — we would open our

Thumbs to let our friends see inside — on this December Saturday, the church Is filling — there’s even overflow seating downstairs with a video streaming—

The windows begin steaming, and tears start stinging — that extraordinary Mixture of dignity and despair emerges in abundance at the service for

Someone so many held dear, death in our midst, we reminisce — we look for Messages of serendipity — the woman sitting beside me says a medium once

Told her that it takes awhile for the departed to settle in to their afterlife — Wherever that may be — when I look out the windows later — the service has

Passed and rosy clouds float along the horizon — it is clear Daedulus must be Flying past us all, journeying forever forward, to somewhere far away.

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