I liked walking around the little cathedral on rainy afternoons mid-week day because it was the quietest time. Everyone was busy at other places and ignored the grey stone structure tucked away in between the tall office buildings. The services and practices were scheduled before and after my time slot, so often I found myself alone.
That was just what my emotional torn soul needed; the escape from everything. The healing silence and stillness of all the stone and wood. The smell of melting wax, dust, old bible pages and hint of polish filled the air.
The rain drummed on the dark stained glass windows, I knew all the religious scenes, angels and saints they displayed by heart having stood before each of them so many times. I trailed fingers on soft worn down wooden pews and looked at the memorial stones for long forgotten people on the walls.
Peacefulness wrapped around me. I was safe in these walls no matter what happened outside. I felt as comforted as if my mother was hugging me tightly, there was nothing to fear.
I walked down into the little crypt which was open to the public. It was dimly lit by wall lights and flickering candles. There were sarcophagi of people from hundreds of years ago scattered about and you could see what they looked like from their statues resting on top. There were lords and ladies laying together, with little lions and dogs at their feet and men who had been rich and powerful enough to get buried here but my favorite was the knight.
He lay alone at the back of the crypt, the statue of him extremely faded and whatever had been known about him lost to time. Perhaps, he had been a Crusader or Templar or just a noble knight to some fancy Lord.
Someone had been here recently. Approaching, I saw a red rose and a small note card resting on the statue’s stomach. Picking up the card, I held it to some light and read, ‘Thank you for giving your life so I could led mine.’
Oh! So someone did know who he was. His memory wasn’t lost as I believed, it was safe in somebody’s family history. My mind spun with questions; who’s family? Could I meet them? How much did they know about the knight?
I set the card back gently and calmed my thoughts, I didn’t come here think like that.
Touching the almost faded face of the statue, I reasoned with myself.
‘Some secrets are best kept in history,’ I spoke.
Turning away, I walked back through the crypt. I might never know who the knight was but someone else did and that was what truly mattered.
(Inspired by https://scvincent.com/2019/01/10/thursday-photo-prompt-honour-writephoto/ with thanks).