ANDY HAD FINALLY COME HOME. The rustling of fall leaves in
the wafting breeze and the scent of wood smoke curling from chimneys struck him
strongly. He halted on his walk, closed his eyes and remembered once more the
pungent fragrance of steamy brown apple butter bubbling in his grandmother’s
cast iron pot. The thought of its richness smeared across her airy buttermilk
biscuits, assailed his taste buds. Then there was her sharp cider that she
pressed each year. Oh, yes, he loved her apple butter and cider from those wine
sap apples she always brought home from Ellijay, Georgia. As a child, he had
always chased his Moon Pie with her cider. Now, an RC Cola complemented his
Moon Pie most of the year, but never in the fall.
The air was permeated with the nostalgia of long forgotten
autumns in these mountains. His gaze fell upon the church, suddenly stark and
red-bricked against a cloudless October sky. Rising from its grassy knoll, it
demanded the attention of the surrounding Alabama hills. The heavy door creaked
as he tugged. Darkness swallowed him within the narthex, but after pushing
through the inner door into the sanctuary, sudden light blinded him. A
brilliant morning sun threw a prism of dancing color across the mahogany pews,
its brilliance diverting his attention from the overpowering aroma of a recent
waxing. Looking above the baptistery, he considered the stained glass through
which the light fell. Stepping softly, as if the noise would disturb the moment,
he approached the altar, his eyes never once leaving the arresting picture of
Christ in the garden. He slowly sank in a bench.
His father’s church.
It had changed so very little. He swung his head to look behind him. So very
like it had been, except for that stained glass above the baptistery. He turned to look at it again. The dazzling
shades darkened as the sun rose to a higher angle. He glanced at the altar.
There was the place, right in front of him now, where as a boy of fourteen he
had knelt after that long walk down the center aisle. Sixteen years ago. He
didn’t want to remember, but it was still there, the look of surprise and
disbelief on his father’s face.
© 2017 Lynn Lacher
Available at www.ichthus publications or Amazon or other online retailers.
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