It had been a couple of months since I last stopped in at St. Mary’s in downtown Albany, so the other day at lunch I buttoned up my coat, slung a scarf around my neck, and walked up the hill in the direction of the church. I used to go there in the summer before and after Dad died. It was a small moment of comfort in days of sorrow.
On this January afternoon, the sky was blue and the sun was shining, but there wasn’t much warmth in the air. At least there wasn’t much wind either. I hadn’t been moving a lot in my post-holiday slump, and my calves burned as I neared the top of the hill. This was where I served jury duty in that awful murder case. Walking past the courthouse no longer left me with a haunted feeling, it was just another marker of a memory, another piece of the past living only in my head, like summer in the middle of winter.
My contemplative mood melted into relief that I’d arrived at the church. I reached for the heavy door, but it was locked. On this day, not even God would let me in. I paused there in the shadow of the doorway, then headed back down the hill.
