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Heartwards (Chapter 5 of 5)
V - The Golden Hour
“—So Jesus would’ve been born over two thousand years ago, according to the calendars!”
“Two thousand?! Does that mean you might’ve met him, Nana?”
“Hah! Not quite, Milo. A bit before my time. You cheeky monkey!”
As Miles approached the frivolous pair, he caught the tail-end of Milo’s quick-witted comment. “Ah-hah! You did set him up for that one! He’s as sharp as you, mum.”
“Yes, I suppose I did, didn’t I? Don’t sell yourself short though, son—the apple doesn’t fall far!”
After reconvening and comparing notes of all the ethereal wonders of the cathedral they enjoyed the most—Milo’s being the vivid stain glass; its ceruleans, scarlets, ambers and teals depicting various Bible stories; Mildred’s, the ineffably carved milky-white statues (one in particular of Mary Magdalene that outshone all others); and Miles’, the lavishly crafted confessional booth—they made their way to the exit.
The August Sun began its ever-quickening journey to the horizon. The year was well past its generosity of midsummer evening light; though it now gilded the west-facing walls of every building with a serenity that perfectly enwrapped the remainder of the family’s day.
“Oh, I do love this time of year—the golden hour—so blissful—isn’t it enchanting, boys?”
“It’s lovely, mum—such a perfect end to a perfect day,” smiled Miles, his hand loosely connecting with his son’s like a mooring rope resting slack on the harbourside.
“Thanks, dad—thanks, Nana.”
“Oh, my dear, you’re ever so welcome! And thank you for making today as memorable as it has been.”
“You’re ever so welcome, Nana!”
As they ambled lazily back to the train station, Miles could feel his heart filling with an amalgam of anxiety and deep love for his son. The more it filled, the heftier it felt to lug. Every step pained him. He savoured the precious seconds as if they were a twenty-year-matured Scotch whisky. Never being a man able to hold his drink, he felt the figmental imbibing manifesting as a nauseating dizziness. “Breathe,” he reassured to himself, “breathe.”
The familiar aroma of coal smoke greeted the three of them as Hawfare Station came into view. The low Sun retired behind the...
“—So Jesus would’ve been born over two thousand years ago, according to the calendars!”
“Two thousand?! Does that mean you might’ve met him, Nana?”
“Hah! Not quite, Milo. A bit before my time. You cheeky monkey!”
As Miles approached the frivolous pair, he caught the tail-end of Milo’s quick-witted comment. “Ah-hah! You did set him up for that one! He’s as sharp as you, mum.”
“Yes, I suppose I did, didn’t I? Don’t sell yourself short though, son—the apple doesn’t fall far!”
After reconvening and comparing notes of all the ethereal wonders of the cathedral they enjoyed the most—Milo’s being the vivid stain glass; its ceruleans, scarlets, ambers and teals depicting various Bible stories; Mildred’s, the ineffably carved milky-white statues (one in particular of Mary Magdalene that outshone all others); and Miles’, the lavishly crafted confessional booth—they made their way to the exit.
The August Sun began its ever-quickening journey to the horizon. The year was well past its generosity of midsummer evening light; though it now gilded the west-facing walls of every building with a serenity that perfectly enwrapped the remainder of the family’s day.
“Oh, I do love this time of year—the golden hour—so blissful—isn’t it enchanting, boys?”
“It’s lovely, mum—such a perfect end to a perfect day,” smiled Miles, his hand loosely connecting with his son’s like a mooring rope resting slack on the harbourside.
“Thanks, dad—thanks, Nana.”
“Oh, my dear, you’re ever so welcome! And thank you for making today as memorable as it has been.”
“You’re ever so welcome, Nana!”
As they ambled lazily back to the train station, Miles could feel his heart filling with an amalgam of anxiety and deep love for his son. The more it filled, the heftier it felt to lug. Every step pained him. He savoured the precious seconds as if they were a twenty-year-matured Scotch whisky. Never being a man able to hold his drink, he felt the figmental imbibing manifesting as a nauseating dizziness. “Breathe,” he reassured to himself, “breathe.”
The familiar aroma of coal smoke greeted the three of them as Hawfare Station came into view. The low Sun retired behind the...
