It was a cold night in July. The street lights were dim; the sidewalks were filled with more homeless kids than usual. I could smell the musky air of dead things. I was searching for solitude and serenity; anything to drown this demon that lives inside these empty rooms of my heart.
Just at the moment I saw the inscription, “St. Paul’s Cathedral.” I have been here once, after the death of Genevieve, the smartest lady with the most graceful heart I have ever met. The day I made her mine was the day the sun rose in my heart, and the day she died was the coldest.
As I walked into the building with stained windows and a sweet scent of incense, I moved quietly to the last pew where the light was less lucent and I could be at peace with my shadows. The preacher was saying just at the moment, like he knew I was there for a miracle, a message, a map, just about anything that would take this scarring pain away.
“We may be able to speak the languages of human beings and even of angels but if we have no love, our speeches are no more than noisy gongs or clanging bells. We may have the gift of inspired preaching; we may have all knowledge and understand all secrets; we may have all the faith need to move mountains – but if we have no love, we are nothing. We may give away everything we have, and even give up our bodies to be burnt – but if we have no love, these do us no good.”
I felt an inferno sweep through me; this message was almost like it was meant for me. I had grappled with the soreness and misery of losing Genevieve for so long, I could literally feel the muscle tissues of my heart ripped apart. I lost all touch with love, life and people. I had written off lots of my pain in poetry but like a tooth ache, it keeps absorbing into my bones.
The Church bell rang, bringing my wandering soul back to reality. The service was over and the preacher was headed towards the back door. I stood up, looked at my wrist watch; it was 12am – another Valentine’s Day without Genevieve.