My soles clink against the limestone,
and I ignore the soreness rising in my legs
from the winding staircase.
I follow my mother,
eyes lowered to my shoes,
wondering why I chose this pair today.
Then
a warmth spreads through me,
not the artificial kind,
the kind of uneven vents
that press and suffocate,
but something real.
I look up,
and there it is.
Sunlight pours through stained glass,
installed centuries ago
by some untraceable chain of pilgrim hands and time
I cannot begin to imagine.
Orange burns like a held sunset.
I do not dare breathe.
I do not dare blink.
The congregation stands with our heads tilted back,
colored light breaking into our faces,
each of us arriving at an epiphany
that needs no language.
I remind myself:
I am an atheist.
But it becomes difficult to hold onto
when beauty insists on being absolute.
It feels impossible
that such intricacy arrived so far back in time.
Human genius,
nature’s gift,
light
intertwined.
And for a moment,
I almost believe.
Because beauty is persuasive.
Coincidence, I whisper.
And I know I am being irrational
Because there is nothing happening here
That cannot be explained by scientific reasoning.
But what if I do not want an explanation right now?
What if I only want to stand in the sanctuary
and tilt my head upward?
What if I want, briefly, to believe?
I shake myself.
Try to break the spell.
I am an atheist.
I do not take out my phone.
I tell myself that it is reverence,
not wanting to disturb the sanctity of the moment.
But I know it is fear
that if I frame it,
I will fixate on it,
and follow it somewhere I do not want to go.
Memory is less precise.
It softens at the edges,
wears thin with time.
Maybe one day I will forget
and no longer have to argue with myself.
I do not hear my footsteps leaving,
only the steady repetition
of the voice inside my head:
I am an atheist.
I am an atheist.
I am an atheist.
