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What I Prayed For

We walk up to the towering cathedral, bundled in heavy winter coats while a sharp, bitting wind stings our exposed faces. Your nose is adorably pink, and your breath comes in white puffs from soft lips. As I stare you look over and smile, revealing your chipped front tooth from when you were nine and fell off your daddy’s motorcycle. You chose never to have it filled, though I don’t quite know why.

“Do you believe in God?” you ask suddenly, as we stare up at the magnificent church.

I don’t answer right away. My eyes take in the old building’s majesty, its monumental gray steeple, the golden cross that glimmers softly from it’s spot above the arching doorway, the sparkling stained glass windows. With their bright jewel tones, rich reds, blues, and greens the mosaics stand out against the dark, stone building. Depicting saints with soft, kind faces dressed in flowing robes of emerald and wine, they smile down at us, almost as if they can hear our whispered conversation.

“I don’t know,” I say at last. “What about you?”

“I believe in things I can see,” you tell me, taking my hand. Your fingers are cold, yet my skin tingles and burns at your touch.

“Such as?” I ask, searching your eyes with mine.

“Me. You. Us.”

I reach up to kiss you.





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