St. Dominicís Church
It had been years since [Scout] had been here, but everything was just as she remembered it. Even the way she felt--which was about twelve years old. The golden oak pews and confessionals were still redolent of lemon oil, and there was still enough marble, in the form of pillars and panels, two elaborately carved baptismal fonts and the altar itself, to lower the interior temperature to something close to sub-arctic. The cold smell of ashes and beeís wax and long-extinguished frankincense and myrrh were all too drearily reminiscent of funerals to be cheered by even the bright splashes of color reflected through the stained glass.
Especially when the splashes were predominantly red. Glowing against the oatmeal colored travertine of the floor, they recalled a little too forcefully all her memories of blood soaked sand. She shivered. And shifted her attention to the trio of musicians warming up in the chancel. A guitar, a flute and a harp should make for an interesting program, she thought.
©PG Forte 2004
A Sight to Dream OF
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