The walls of St. P
I found myself walking through a long corridor with some unimaginable decor yesterday darling.
You see, I went to a church which stands at the top of a hill. It is surrounded by nothing but cliffs behind it; with wild bushes and rubble walls on its sides. It is an old church, its stone stained with the rain and time, and with wide front steps leading up to the entrance door.
I walked up those steps, with my black dress skimming the decayed stone, and walked past the red velvet curtains which inhibited the sun’s rays from entering the church. There were no paintings hanging, no frescoes, instead, the brick walls were carved with the intricate shapes of damask.
I took off my shoes and walked past the empty chairs and unlit candles, past the Virgin Mary and St. Paul, feeling the cold chill of the marble with my bare feet. Moving past the altar, I found myself in a long corridor with walls that were covered with casts, hung together with photos of men and women in hospitals, some in wheelchairs; baby clothes, old lace and old prayer papers stained with a yellow tinge that comes with time, with hurried writings thanking the Virgin Mary for the grace she had bestowed.
It was a long corridor, and there was not an inch of the two walls that was bare, leading to another corridor where framed mirrors were hung all over the walls. I could see a number of Madeliene Roses in the mirrors and other women donning black dresses, with their head bent, looking steadfastly at something I could not see.
It was a quiet place, too quiet, even for a church.
Story credits: Lindsay Adler Photography for the image.