I’ve returned from Florida, sunburned, broke, and resolved to avoid any hot, humid place for at least another year. It was a good vacation, all things considered–sure, I spent one entire day at Universal Studios panicking over the future of my health care, but such is life right now.
Florida is a strange place. It’s so entirely unlike the Pacific Northwest that if I started to describe the ways it’s different I’d never stop–here, we’re surrounded by mountains on every side, our water is cold, the air is crisp, and we don’t put ten pounds of cheese on our salads.
We spent an afternoon in St. Augustine, the oldest city in the United States. We ate some southern food, which was delicious, and wandered around through an old hotel turned into a museum packed full of Victorian artifacts as well as an ancient Catholic church.
I’ve never been a religious person, but I’m still drawn to big, old churches. I investigate the candles, run my fingers over the pews, stare up at the stained glass as if I’ll find something there I haven’t before. You can feel the reverence in a church, like all the accumulated prayers and hymns reverberate from the walls in a constant, never-fading echo.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) Old English hāligdōm from hālig for “holy”
Something sacred, especially a place.
Meredith pumps her legs. It isn’t as easy as it used to be; she’s carrying the weight of the day’s work, her hips sore from standing, knees creaky, feet swollen from the heat and improper support. But the momentum carries her forward and back until her stomach flips and she regrets pushing quite so hard.
Crickets chirp, the chains of the swing creak, and traffic rumbles from the main street a few blocks away. Meredith closes her eyes and for a moment she is weightless and the world is full of promise, just as it was when she was young.