A perpetual low light hung over the island—it was the same from sunrise to sundown. At dawn, the lights of a nearby cathedral come to life. They dotted the cornices and corners of the façade like a heavy, celestial lace.
Inside, there were only the very old and very young, children ages six or seven. No one in between. It was bright and golden and awesome, busy and alive. All the candle banks were full; you could hear the wax sizzle and wicks crackle. The old women wore veils and white, starched dresses embroidered with different designs, some intricate and heavy, some sharp and linear. I thought I might take a picture, but I didn’t have a camera.
Two young boys came up beside me. Their hair was cut straight in front, black kohl rimmed their eyes. They smiled up at me and closed them. Another set of eyes were painted on their eyelids.
“So we can always see,” they said, without moving their lips.
Their voices were like churchbells and the tittering of sparrows.©