The smell of urine stained the sidewalks that were cracked and miserable. There was noise in the people walking by, the crackling noise of snow on a broken television set and in the more severe cases, a high pitched sustained beep that threatened to pop her ear drums. She held her best friend’s hand tightly and wrapped her head with her plaid cotton scarf, her bones on the verge of collapsing from the unforgiving wind.
We are perpetual children in our Father’s house, she said as she closed her eyes, clicking her heels three times as they waited to cross the street. She opened her eyes and looked up. The tangled telephone lines that waggled above their heads transformed into chandeliers that sparkled and shone a buttery gold. They walked on ivory marble that was spotless and incapable of ever becoming dirty. A blue sky with white clouds was their canopy that hung high above as if their Father’s house were for giant giants that used oceans as their bathtubs and mountains as furniture. A stillness replaced the wind and sent a hush through their bodies. She suddenly felt safe and unafraid and no longer found a need to show bravado. It was replaced by a confidence of knowing her Father was in the house, sitting on a throne with the train of His robe filling the room and ready to be interrupted if she wanted to show Him the toad that she’d caught, spin in circles to show off the perfect twirl of her dress, or sing Him the newest song she’d learned.