She smells of myrrh, and of candlelight. It is the kind of scent that only comes from sitting in the pews of a church for a long time, the kind of scent that separates the followers from the worshippers. The incense is sticky, it clings to your clothes and hair and skin long after you leave as if a reminder to come back, your loyalty but a tithe the Catholic church must collect. But the candlelight; the scent of candlelight is oh-so subtle, its sweet warmth only settling after hours of nearby prayer.
It is the night before I leave home, and I sit next to my halmoni in the pews. Her white hair is shroud in an even whiter veil, giving her head a halo-like glow in the dim lighting of the empty church. I watch her wordlessly mouth prayer as the beads of her rosary clink softly in her lap. Carvings of Jesus on his Via Crucis line the walls, each consequent ornament bringing him closer to crucifixion. Light streams through the stained glass windows, dotting the walls with color. A large portrait of the Virgin Mary smiles down at us, arms open in an invitation to come closer.
For something built on a foundation of deceit and exploitation, the church sure is damn beautiful.
My halmoni whispers my name and I startle. It is the first sound she has made in hours. “I prayed for you.” I nod, saying nothing. “I used to have so many dreams, you know. I wanted to be a painter. I was a good painter,” she murmurs, “Before your halabeoji, I was gonna go to art school, I was gonna paint. Then I got pregnant and, well, money was tight. The lord has taken my vision but you, my dear, will be brilliant, I’m sure. God will protect you.” My halmoni turns to me, her milky eyes reflecting my brown ones. I stay silent, turning to face the cross hung at the front of the church. I stare at the point where the two perpendicular lines cross.
For the first time in a long time, I pray. I pray for the existence of a God I have abandoned. With what little faith remains, I beg the heavens: “Please do not forsake my grandmother.”
Minutes pass and my halmoni grabs my hands, pressing her veil into them, “Take it, it’s yours.”
I pray.
To carry the weight of it all, unflinching.
