Flash fiction, Hilary Ayshford

Our Lady of Sorrows 

It’s cold inside the church, as cold as charity. Maria shuffles up the nave under the anguished gaze of Jesus, her down-at-heel brogues slap-whispering on the flagstones dinted by thousands of feet before hers. The feeble winter sun stripes the grey pillars with pastel colour.

She eases her bag down carefully onto the altar steps and rubs her aching shoulder.

‘I brought you these,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t think what else to do with them.’ 

Her words bounce off smoke-stained pillars, echoing round the vast, vaulted roof. 

‘It’s not a peace offering,’ she adds, in case God gets the wrong idea. ‘I’ve not forgiven you for taking him.’

Her voice sounds strange, unfamiliar to her. These days, now Patrick isn’t there to to talk to, she listens more than she speaks. She still visits the hospice every day, even though he’s been in the ground for months. Now she sits with those who have nobody, holding their crepe paper hands and stroking wispy tendrils of hair from their faces as the end approaches.

Sometimes, they tell her things – shameful things they don’t want to be buried with: clandestine affairs; a secret love child; crimes that went unpunished; slights and spites, things said and unsaid. 

Maria doesn’t know what to do with these confessions, so she puts them in her tote bag and takes them with her. But they’re weighing her down, immobilising her; she can’t go back, but moving forward is like wading through treacle. Today, unable to bear the increasing heft of them any longer, she brings them here. 

‘They’re yours now,’ she tells God. ‘I never asked for them. I’ve got enough burdens of my own without carrying other people’s.’

She upends the bag, and a stream of guilt, regrets, recriminations, weaknesses and missed opportunities flows out across the chancel; they collect in crevices, form shallow pools, disappear down cracks. The surge of relief leaves her breathless. 

On her way out, she pauses to light a candle for Patrick. A wisp of smoke drifts upwards, lifting the weight from her soul; the flickering flame pierces the grey fog of her grief. Slinging the empty bag over her shoulder, she leaves the church with a renewed lightness in her steps and in her heart.