Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes
in front of the church of Mosta whose dome dominates the beautiful skyline of my island. The steps are insignificant, lost beneath the mighty church. The Rotunda of St Marija Assunta, Mosta marks the heart, the soul, the essence of the island.
I sit down.
I am on the top step.
my feet are moving.
~p – it – ter.
~p – it – ter.
pattering, restless.
I am looking at my ruby red toenails, at the cracks in the layers, the imperfections. I always do that; I know that Matt would agree. I see negatives in myself, beauty in others. I wish that I had thought to remove the nail varnish, to repaint my toenails and then I laugh, ha ha ha. I had not planned this journey, I had not thought.
My toes are covered in a fine layer of white dust, Maltese dust, the leftovers of lives. A fine layer of white dust has already settled onto the smooth steps; I wonder which fragments of lives, of memories exist beside me, covering me. Some of the remnants will be lost within the white cotton of my dress. I think, I will not wash my dress.
I rub my hands down the cotton material. I turn my palms to look, to see. A fine layer of white dust coats my skin. I smile. The dust should sink into me, become me. I hunch over, leaning forward, my breasts point down towards my lap. I stroke my dusty palms over my calves, the hairs are soft, relaxed. I rarely shave in the winter. I should have thought, I laugh again, ha ha ha. I can see the hairs, dark on pale skin, others will too.
I can no longer pretend to be perfect.
I smile.
I sweep my hair around to my left shoulder, twist it smaller, tighter, twirling down the hair until it pulls at my roots. My hair is thick, too thick, neither straight nor curly, just thick. My hair has character, I am told. As I grip the twist in my hair, my neck is exposed, hoping for a breeze to swirl over. I long for a cool gush of breath, the blowing of my Lord’s breath onto, into my being.
The midday sun is peaking, uncharacteristically hot for February. I wonder if my Lord is happy with me. I wonder if this is another test, endurance of sorts. Sweat trickles from beneath my thick hair, down my neck, slowly, down my spine.
I refuse to move from the step. I stay. I take His torture.
My eyes are searching, for Christopher, for Matt, for Molly.
I am an adult, I remind myself.
I need to gain control, I remind myself.
My right hand attempts to shade my eyes from the burning sun. I am scanning the beeping cars, the hustle, the queues of traffic, the lines of buses. I am searching faces. I am squinting into eyes. I am searching for people who are no longer there, here, not really. I do not want to go into the church, alone.
I wonder if Christopher can hear me.
I shout to him, inside my head.
I shout to Jesus too.
Christopher does not appear.
Jesus does not appear.
The dust is rising, circulating.
I am lost within the moment. My Lord’s emotions are controlling me, His blood is the bubbling sun, the dust is in His swirling breath.
I have no choice.
Life is not full of choices, not in the way that we are taught, that we believe. We are being controlled, guided, influenced. There is no free will.
I grab my shawl; my cardigan is shoved between the straps of my handbag. I snatch my almost empty bottle of water. I stand, push my toes until they rub into the bar of the flip-flops. They are pink flip-flops. I think of Molly. I sweep the shawl round to cover my naked shoulders, a church entry requirement.
I turn, I flip-flop.
~fl – ip.
~fl – op.
~fl – ip.
~fl – op.
up to the Rotunda.
I stop, in the doorway, in the shaded, the cool. I look into the vast, the beautiful space within the church. Rays of sunlight shine down through the dome, into the centre, bringing illumination, bringing focus. I look to the empty wooden chairs that are lined, facing the intricate altar. I think to the congregation.
The Rotunda of St Marija Assunta in Mosta stands tall and proud. It is a church where an incontestable miracle occurred. The ninth of April 1942 is a date etched within Maltese roots. It is a date that has been passed down through generations. The air bombardments of World War II were destroying the island of Malta. My people feared for their lives, yet as a nation they did not wait helplessly for death. The people of Malta pulled together, united in prayer; they trusted in their God.
On that very day in April, it is said that around three hundred of my people were praying in the Rotunda of St Marija Assunta, Mosta, as a German bomb penetrated through the huge dome, falling into the heart of the congregation.
It is believed that a miracle happened. They say that the impossible occurred.
It is said that that Axis bomb bounced to the floor and failed to explode, that no one was injured.
When I was a child, my mother would tell me that the bomb not exploding was God’s answer to our people’s prayers for protection. She told me that God had rewarded their united faith. She told me that the bomb not exploding was evidence of God’s existence and that belief in His being was beyond doubt, beyond question. The bomb was faith.
I think that a renewed conviction connected those people, those who had seen that miracle, who had had their prayers answered. Their world, their island was crumbling to ruin, but their God had shown them that He was trying, that He was there and that they would be rewarded, eventually. There could be no questioning of faith, of God, not after the bomb that failed to explode.
I understand that.
Their reward, I guess, came in the renewed sense of community, of belonging, from a faith that was beyond question.
I do not have that faith. I do not have a miracle to pass through generations.
I am standing in the doorway, away from the sun that bubbles my blood.
‘I doubt you,’ I say.
‘Are you listening?’ I ask.
‘I don’t believe, I doubt,’ I say.
Then I hear that voice.
Jesus: Then answer this. Who do you talk