I can remember being prepared for confirmation - the old Anglican church in Sliema was within walking distance of my parents' flat - my dad had been posted to Malta - I learned to swim off the warm rocks of Balluta Bay -
The incense would swirl inside Holy Trinity Church - it was cool and dark within the Victorian walls - I would study the catechism given me with profound attention - outside, my shadow was razor sharp, dancing upon the pavement -
When we entered the Cathedral in Sibinek, all of the vague beautiful mystery of my boyish faith came back to me -
Our guide, Darijan, told us that we must behave with decorum - shawls were draped over the bare shoulders of the Icelandic girls -
We passed by ornate, sumptuous, altars - marble columns glowed in the dim light - underfoot were the tombs of prelates and heroes -
Darijan took us into the Baptistery - I felt my eyes fill with tears - above me was the face of God the Father - I looked up at the calm, bearded, face - delicate stone shells reminded one of pilgrimage - gentle angels unfurled their white wings -
I thought about my mum - she's told me she believes in heaven -I could see her, in my mind's eye, whilst I stood there, in the numinous space -
I saw her when she was much younger than she is now - we were in a small cemetery between two railway lines - she was cleaning the neat gravestone of my gran, her mum - she straightened up, putting down her cloth - I'll see her in heaven she said -
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