He stands outside,
staring at the wooden doors
as though they hold all the answers.
People push past, living their lives.
But he just stands there.
Quietly
he slips in, slowly walking down the empty aisle, willing fingers skim the tops of the vacant benches.
His glazed eyes, filled with awe, stare unwavering at the stained glass, marble carvings.
He sees the light shining on the statue and imagines Her with him now.
Surely they all must be.
Surely they are willing to help.
Calmly he kneels on the carpeted stairs, mumbling to himself while tears pool in his down-turned eyes.
The man prays,
for what no one knows.
I watch from a window, the man who begs.
So sad, so broken.
He collapses, silent sobs rip through his body, on the feet of Mother Mary.
I wait.
For what I don’t know.
A light to shine upon him.
A priest to bless him.
A divine miracle.
Still the man cries,
bloodied fingers rip his hair.
I shake my head with pity,
leave the window and the sight it holds.
And I know if I come tomorrow, He will still be there.
He always is.