Cent et Un Mots par Jour

Cent et Un Mots par Jour


It's dark inside. And cold. Shadows crawl on the pillars and the benches, on the faces of the statues. The organ reverberates against the grey stone of the walls. Far ahead, two tiny figures stand face to face, in black and white, in front of a man in a robe. A happy light falls on them from a round window. Hopes and whishes are flying around silently. Thoughts of the future. Dreams of an infant. I shudder. From the cold or from the floating thoughts, I don't know. On a last note on the organ, people are starting to stand and walk to the door. We all run to the light, to the bright summer day. The heat washes the goosebumps from our arms. And the bells ring, and toll, shouting the couple's happiness to a sympathetic sky. The young woman in white, and her new husband dressed in dark grey, exit the church with a smile on their face, under our assault. Grains of rice are thrown to their departing figures. I wish them all the best.



Claire Annovazzi

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