The Floor Recalls Water

The pillars here are slate gray, root systems growing through the marble bases. Green moss covers the stone where the vaulted ceiling meets the forest air. I follow the thick thread, yellow optic wire, running across the uneven flagstones. The air smells of salt and pine needles. I know this floor remembers water; the weight of it pulls at my ankles now, a slight, persistent drag. A bench sits near the altar, listing the names of people who died in 1883, not the hymns they sang. The weight of my coat seems incorrect for my frame. I reach out a hand, brushing the damp surface of the stone. A small, empty ache sits in the hollow space behind my ribs. The thread slackens, pulling toward a patch of bark that holds the exact temperature of a porcelain cup.