A Locked Door and a Redacted Line
The organ drifted through the heavy oak doors of St.
Jude Parish, a low vibration that rattled the brass pins in my hair, and I walked down the aisle with my eyes fixed on the altar, four hundred faces in the carved pine pews.
Jonathan stood at the altar steps in his black tuxedo, his shoulders straight, his smile practiced.
Rosalind sat in the front pew in green silk catching the light of the tall beeswax candles.
Father Thomas cleared his throat and began, and when he reached the part of the service that usually passes in silence, his voice dropped into the quiet of the sanctuary.
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