WordSmith: When memories take a pew…
Ahead of me in the near distance candles flicker creating shadows that dance in the dim light. Outside, the wind is howling causing doors to creak and windows to shudder. Cavan Cathedral is empty, save for me and my thoughts that join the flickering shadows in reflective dance. I’m alone, yet I’m not, for memories leave my mind to walk the aisles and take their pew.
The first memory is clear and present, it’s me. I’m a child clutching tight to my sister’s hand. I’m wearing short trousers with a shirt clamped tight at the neck with a bow-tie, it’s uncomfortable, but I endure it.
I’m a miniscule person in a colossal place and I feel slightly fearful, unsure of why I’m here. Maria guides me up a central aisle, the length of which tires my tiny legs; I occasionally halt like a tired puppy on a lead who wants to be carried, but Maria pulls me on with her gentle admonishment, “Come on Gerard, aunt Maisie will be here soon.” We take our pew and I’m grateful for the rest. And when aunt Maisie arrives on the arm of my daddy, I’m overwhelmed by her beauty. The pomp and ceremony of her marriage to my uncle Charlie, ease me, and I look around the beautiful space with awe and wonder. My daddy walked his sister up the aisle because my grandaddy was unable to, but I didn’t know that, then.
Now, as I sit in this hallowed space, the howling winds dislodge more memories and I follow them as they weave in and out of the magnificent Corinthian columns. Again, I’m with my sister, Maria. She’s changed, for she has a secret that’s hidden from me. Where before we were close, now she’s distant and I fear some malevolence has taken hold of her.
The beautifully dressed congregation arrive in silent droves. We find a pew with space and squeeze in. As Mass commences, Maria’s mumbling catches my eye. Her head’s down, I see her mouth moving in silent prayer. This strikes me as odd, never have I seen my sister embrace prayer so fervently. I believe she is trying to rid herself from a demon that possess her; which is the only way my young mind can rationalise her change.
I stare at her moving mouth, trying to discern her words, but I can’t fathom any. She reminds me of a fish out of water, yearning to be thrown back to recover the life before this thing overtook her – the sight of her makes me sad. Maria notices my stare, looks at me and mouths, “What?” I whisper, “What’re you praying for?” Her lips tickle my ear, “We’re at Mass, that’s what we do.” My response is loaded, “Tell me what you’re praying for, and I’ll pray for it too,” I say, hopeful of clues to her change in the response. She shuts me up with an angry head-swivel.
With Mass over, there’s a marked contrast in the atmosphere outside the Cathedral.
The respectful silence that accompanied the congregation’s entrance is replaced with a relaxed sizzle as they burst into chattering. It feels like a collective tension has been released as people open up, and talk. I’m acutely aware of the words that surround me. More significantly, I figure that if people are relaxed, secrets might be spilt and they may reveal more about Maria. And so, I mingle – and listen.
I soon deduce the main topic of conversation is sunshine. “Isn’t this weather great,” asks a woman dressed in a bright trouser-suit, of a man who appears distressed by his Sunday suit- and-boot, “It might be great for you, but the heat’s killing me,” he replies. I stare at him, open-mouthed, waiting for the weather to make its final blow and finish him off right there, on the concourse of the Cathedral. But it doesn’t happen. Instead, they both look at me, annoyed with my intrusion, “Who do you belong to?” asks the woman, sweat prickles her forehead.
I close my mouth and scarper into the crowd, searching for something to explain my sister’s change. I found nothing, back then.
Now, as I sit at the back of the Cathedral, the wind abates and spring sunshine floods the reverential space; I’m warmed by the memories of Maria.
In adulthood we reminisced about those Cathedral days, “You’d changed, you were so horrible to me, I thought you were possessed by the Devil?” Maria laughed, “I was obsessed with that lad from the farmyard, and prayed Dad would walk me up the aisle to marry him like aunt Maisie married Charlie.”
The Cathedral of Ss Patrick and St Felim – it holds a multitude of memories for many.
READ MORE