At the top of our street stands our little tin-roofed Chapel.
Not fancy, or grand; just plain and simple
With pews made from weatherbeaten wood,
So shiny you could slide all the way down one
After a good hard push.
Fading red velvet draped the Altar
On which sat the Silver Bowl.
Our Dad's name was engraved on this Bowl
Along with the names of other men from our village
Who had lost their lives fighting wars.
We would sit through the preaching,
Squirming in our uncomfortable Sunday dresses
Until the highlight of the morning arrived.
MUSIC TIME:
The sound of wheezing and gasping would fill the air.
We never did figure out if it was the person pumping the organ
Or the organ itself.
The whole Chapel shook and vibrated,
As the tin roof echoed the chords back to us.
We held our breaths,
waiting for the roof to come crashing down
on our heads.
That old organ could belt out music
that would make our hair tingle.
We could sing at the top of our voices,
No one could hear if we were out of tune.
The notes danced across the Altar
Surrounding everyone, demanding complete and absolute attention.
Our hearts felt as though they would burst wide open
As the vibrations entered our very souls.
The choir members sang with voices of pure gold
And the music rang in our ears
Long after the organist had slumped over the keyboard, exhausted.
Our little Chapel stands empty now,
Replaced by a splendid modern structure.
The roof of this building will never
Come crashing down on our heads, I am sure of that.
The sleek and shiny electric organ
starts at the flick of a switch
And perfectly organized notes flow easily from it.
I try not to think about children going home from Sunday service
With no splinters in their bottoms, and no ringing ears.
The one thing that sustains me is
the Silver Bowl still sits proudly on an Altar,
draped with rich red velvet, trimmed with Gold.
