All Saints

Rian attended an All Saints service this morning. Twas poignant, and lovely and beautiful in a sad, somber, dripping wintery way.

The wind is blowing today, angry clouds passing back and forth, low on the horizon. Inside the chapel, the sun sprang through blue stained glass and then greyed away. Sprang and then greyed, the imagines of shell and water darkening to stark in the glass each time the clouds rolled overhead.

In the changing light the minister read the names of the year's dead and rang a bell after each pronouncement. The bell, handheld, rang deep and true, a piercing, vibrating lance to the heart that tightened the throat.

An acolyte lit one votive for each name. In the pews and about the giant organ souls wept quickly, stifling sounds beneath handkerchief or pinched fingers.

By the end of the service the chapel was mostly shades of grey, even the stained glass gone muted. The wind blew loud outside and the candles, several bright with rows, danced back and forth, the only life in the room.