Voices

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It wasn't until I noticed that my shirt was sticking to my skin and my arms were tired of being pulled by a fifty-something pound puppy that I realized the sound pouring out of the old Anglican church on Byrne Street. Voices in unison, a strange and beautiful noise flooding thick and sweet like honey. I could hear it rip through the dark, swelling from the hearts of tiny children and old men, a faint organ melody leading voices together and seeping out of stained glass windows and onto the streets. When I heard it I had to sit on the old rusted bench in the church courtyard because I was certain I had heard it all before. I remembered and was shocked, not by the words, or the hymn being played, but by the sound of people calling out in unison. I heard voices blending to magnify one great voice, as if recalling from a dream as a child or plunging into water and hearing the clicking, clapping sound fill my ears - it was the sound of praise my heart longs to hear, it was what I knew, even so young and sitting on the kitchen table with my loose braids and all of my secrets. It was like opening up a valve to the flow of something better, voices that somehow when I close my eyes shut I can hear bright shining as the sun a thousand years from this place. I could hear perfect behind the imperfect, spotless and wonderful behind every lingering note. Voices flooding out together with inflamed hearts and humble tongues, as if to say "we know it all, too."