Marble

From the Archives Nov. 6, 2008...


It's not quite quiet. The wind blows, slipping over the vaulted roof, cutting and whistling across the outside tiles. Traffic sounds come through too. Noises full of engines, rubber and gasoline.
The insulated calm is cracked, reverberating and breaking heavily from the marbled floor to the roof. 
He settles in the back, full of sound, creaking and descriptive. 
He's all shuffles, bumps, rustles and groans. A pause when he figures out how to get settled, and then an echoing thud as he sits down.
"Hello, Lord Jesus."
His voice is easily understood. 
The surprise lasts a moment. His impromptu audience unsure of how to react. 
And so he continues, muttered words that hover on the edge of comprehension.
"And I ask your blessing."
Names and causes float upward, spreading. Mumbled words continue, slipping out in the cadence of conversation. It's no longer akward to listen; these accidental voyeurs.
Biting back a groan, he shifts and continues. His words eventually fade to silence, interrupted only by wooden creaking as he periodically moves. 
He hasn't come to pay homage to the glass or the marble. He doesn't lift his head to the intricate carvings or alcoves. He has come, it seems, to do business.
And when the not-quite-quiet returns, it feels almost fractured.