The Chapel of the Dormition

I was seven years old thighs numbing on the church pew, swinging my legs feet strapped into black patent Mary Janes and frilled ankle socks, pressing a wad of spearmint gum to the side of my mouth in a show of respect before the rows of red jar candles flickering beneath a gilded icon of the Holy Mother on her deathbed tendrils of incense intertwining with whispers of They need to move it and they told me Elizabeth stay where you are don’t move as they filed out the door in their black tweed black linen black pumps sheer-to-waist black stockings with a run on the left calf Stay in the chapel, Elizabeth as my legs thrashed ever more violently on the ancient polished wood spotted with candle wax and greased with orange oil Just wait in the chapel as I scraped at the grime on the pew till the undersides of my fingernails turned black and I desperately clawed beneath them to scratch out the tar until they started bleeding and the icon of Saint John’s head bleeding onto a silver platter was staring at me from the east wall and Saint Barbara’s disembodied eyes bored holes into my forehead with every choking breath of smoke thick with resins I gasped for outside air Stay in the chapel, Elizabeth and staggering towards the ancient double doors I tried to shove it open but the lock held fast until one door slid half an inch forward and one eye strained through the crack spying dirt stray grass blurred sky fading to slategray haze of upturned earth streaked with grassblades thudding of footsteps my father’s coffin caked with dirt being hoisted to a new plot by ruddy sweating men in linen shirts with their sleeves rolled up sweat rolling down my forehead stinging my eyes Saint Barbara’s eyes Stay in the chapel Elizabeth choking on frankincense smoke on the silver platter boring holes into my skull slate dirt stained mahogany swirled with beeswax incense blood of St. John blinding as I stumbled back to the pew digging fingers into grime and candlewax panting when my mother in her sheer-to-waists and the black linen brigade returned they found me on the pew swinging my legs spearmint gum mixing with metallic bloodtaste— Good girl they said.