Crying In Brazil
I sat on a hard thin bench, in a tall thin church, on a strangely cold morning in Sao Paulo. Light from the stain glass windows cut through the darkness of the chapel and landed on the cold marble at her feet. She stood before the altar, her head bowed, her hands folded lightly. Slowly her head rose, her dark hair framing her pale olive face. She raised her hands, palms turned upward. She began with a single note as thin and delicate as her own tiny frame. Her song floated about the room like a mist. The saints in their niches and the stone carved angels leaned in to listen. She worshiped God with gentle praise and delicate passion. The roar and crash of the metropolis outside faded into a silent reverence. Her eyes closed, dark wet lashes. Tears on her soft cheeks, sparkled in the sunlight, like crystals.