056: The Church at the End of the Road

There's an empty church at the end of the road. God knows how long it's been there. It looks more like a pile of stones with wooden beams here and there, but we still call it a church. Sometimes children go there to play hide-and-seek in the ruins, lovers might find shelter there from prying eyes, and old couples wander by and see themselves in it. It's part of our home, and if someone decided to restore it, we would have protested. It has been that way since our great-grandparents were born, and it will be that way after we become great-grandparents.

On rainy nights I go there alone. I bring a lantern, a flickering light, and sit in a nook under the wooden beams and stones. I think there are stairs leading up to where I am, and there's something that looks like a cracked altar. Some of the wooden beams on the floor might be benches, but all that sits on them now is green and grey moss. Water drips around me, but my patch is dry.

From where I sit, I look to the east. There's a window there that shows the sea. I have never been close to the sea, but I like to think that some day, when the children have grown up, the lovers married, and the old couples gone to their graves—then I will go. I will go and never look back, for all that will remain of my home will be an empty church.

Written by: Katrine H.