I couldn’t quite see as much as the pushy types. They often barge through regardless of who was there first and demand the best seats in the house. Standing room only. I watched with the restricted view, a gallery of backs and backs of heads. Seeing people as they never see themselves. All that focus on the face and front. A gathering of the other side, ungroomed, unloved, stare at me, and I try to ignore in pursuit of what lies beyond. They still stare at me, spines who will never see the face of the body they serve, and all the time I wish to look beyond, to see what the agitation is.
It started with a group, it was billed as special but had the feeling of unpredictability about it. It didn’t feel right. Truth is, it never felt right, ever. Suddenly the uncertainty broke and a single voice could be heard. Heard above the clamour, heard above ringtones and radios, heard above iPods and headphones. A single voice heard above hate, pride, ego and anger. A single voice cuts across discordant television sets blaring out windows that house urban sails as net curtains swell with the breeze.
After the voice came the noises. Have you ever heard the sound of destruction? Like furniture smashing, wood snapping, splinters propelled like bullets. And what of violation have you heard that noise? Or hope? Or restoration? A compound of noises, some unsafe but all good. Like the lion in Narnia.
What happened next was even more amazing still, the crowd moved closer, almost as one breath being drawn in. Like a ribcage we inhaled and held our place, in anticipation of the next act. Suspended in time we all held our breath as the owner of the single voice held the twisted hand of a twisted man. Our eyes dilating, the eyebrows of the city raised, the expression of this world transfigured from apathy to awe. After that moment nothing could ever be the same, everything was technicolour. I rushed back as we all did, to spread the news. We were the media then, we were the vessels of stories, some true some not. I arrived breathless at home, indiscriminately recounting the events. Like the mixed summers of England my response was varied. I waited another few minutes just to see if the story had caught light in their hearts, a spark, a fire, that was enough. I jostled out of the house and onto the narrow streets, I had a story in my belly, in my heart, in my head and I had a list of people I needed to share. I began to run. I was running, pregnant with hope. I was running with life inside me, life that I saw being born, life that changed everything. Nothing was the same. I was running with the energy of life itself until I ran straight into Him.
I swear my torso was moving like a bass speaker, my heart was beating so fast, it felt like a collision; cardio against ribs no respite. He looked at me, and threw me. I was so afraid. Dread. Somehow He knew the extra bits I added to the story, made up for the scenes I couldn’t see. Somehow He knew everything, and I was paralysed. I wanted to hide and I wanted to reveal. I wanted to cry and I wanted to laugh. I was afraid and I was secure. His face slowly changed from studying me to smiling at me. His smile grew, my face a collection of twitches grew into a cautious, nervous smile. He smiled more and then without any warning, He laughed, I couldn’t help it, I laughed out loud, like a release to tension locked. He responded with laughing louder, like a lion. Two people laughing. And then the moment came. He laughed so much that he bent over and in steadying himself, put his hand on my shoulder and stared at me. A moment later, He was gone.
Granite, a construction stone. Cold to touch. Secure.
