by Dan Albergotti
Albergotti. The Boatloads. Vestibule
I sometimes wish I could find Cindy to thank her for agreeing with my fine idea that we sneak into the university chapel late one night in 1983 to make love. I don't just want to thank her for giving me the trump card—"house of worship"— I hold in every stupid party game that begins, "Where's the strangest place you've ever…?" No, I want to thank her for the truth of it. For knowing that the heart is holy even when our own hearts were so frail and callow. Truth: it was 1983; we were nineteen years old; we lay below the altar and preached a quiet sermon not just on the divinity of skin, but on the grace of the heart beneath. It was the only homily we knew, and our souls were beatified. And if you say sentiment and cliché, then that is what you say. What I know is what is sacred. Lord of this other world, let me recall that night. Let me again hear how our whispered exclamations near the end seemed like rising hymnal rhythm, and let me feel how those forgotten words came from somewhere else and meant something. Something, if only to the single moth that, in the darkened air of that chapel, fluttered its dusty wings around our heads.