Concerning the Park

  Pale blue angels loitering about park-benches along the concrete lake shore; pale devils cupping cigarettes against the breeze, faces vanishing in the orange flare. Wan spirits of children staring as unabashed as only the innocent can, led into darkness by the hand of preoccupied parents. Ghostly lovers reclined on blankets spread across the damp grass and beneath the occasional glimpse of Orion flexing dimly on midnight blue. Faded winter captured in a glass of wine caught flashing in a moment of moonlight and revenants in evening supplication. Dew, tears, rain, absolution. Perhaps we stress too much over definition.

Concerning the Response

  Maybe God does move closer to the earth on holy days. Maybe he senses more minds and souls receptive, seeking. Weeping without words. Or maybe he is always close, and we are more in tune. The gap of accessibility shrinks, lessening the reaction time before encounter. Whatever it is, what Kevin saw when he looked into the face of the crucifix was a blending of emotion, a gamut of indescribable pain, sorrow, hurt, and somehow a sense of resolution. Of need and fulfillment; of emptiness and meaning; of water and wine. Of Gethsemane understanding.
  Kevin opened his mouth to speak, maybe protest, like struggling to cry out in a dream. He was as inchoate and mute as when the Ghost reminded him of the one scar among many, shaking, face flushed and wet. Finally the words made it from his throat to his lips. “FUCK YOU!” he screamed, not caring who heard.
  The echo of his boots chased him from the sanctuary, whipping candles, down the saturnine steps and the mindless circle of the park outside.

Concerning the Response

  Maybe God does move closer to the earth on holy days. Maybe he senses more minds and souls receptive, seeking. Weeping without words. Or maybe he is always close, and we are more in tune. The gap of accessibility shrinks, lessening the reaction time before encounter. Whatever it is, what Kevin saw when he looked into the face of the crucifix was a blending of emotion, a gamut of indescribable pain, sorrow, hurt, and somehow a sense of resolution. Of need and fulfillment; of emptiness and meaning; of water and wine. Of Gethsemane understanding.
  Kevin opened his mouth to speak, maybe protest, like struggling to cry out in a dream. He was as inchoate and mute as when the Ghost reminded him of the one scar among many, shaking, face flushed and wet. Finally the words made it from his throat to his lips. “FUCK YOU!” he screamed, not caring who heard.
  The echo of his boots chased him from the sanctuary, whipping candles, down the saturnine steps and the mindless circle of the park outside.