Via Crucis

The cypresses in the cemetery, grown old and ample on the compost of death, swayed and groaned before the mistral, the fierce, bone-dry wind that sometimes blew in those parts.

Never mind, it was the chapel we’d come to see. As a man of the cloth I thought David might be interested, and Jessica, of course.

The heavy oak door slammed shut behind us, and the sudden silence was awesome. A faint bluish light from one small east window fell like a tear upon the flagstones and a few benches were drawn up before the bare white altar. We breathed in the smell of cold stone. Jessica said, ‘This place gives me the creeps.’

So what about the large iron crucifix hanging from my wall that I’d rescued from the cemetery dump. It must have belonged to some lost soul. ‘David,’ Jessica said, ‘it’s time we made a move.’

From their car window she shouted, ‘We’ll pray for you,’ as the mistral carried them off in a cloud of dust.