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The Church Door in Winter
Voice of Stephen L. Harrison
The handle is always cold, no matter the hour.
It has known more hands than I ever will— weddings, funerals, the in-between Sundays where nothing much happens except the keeping of time.
I pause before turning it, as though something inside might be waiting to notice.
The yew tree leans, as it always has, older than worry, older than names carved in stone.
Inside, the air holds its breath.
A hymn book rests open, as if someone has just stepped away and will be back any moment.
I do not stay long.
Just enough to feel the quiet settle, like dust in a beam of light.
When I leave, the door closes gently behind me—
as though it understands I will return, even if I don’t know when.
Voice of Stephen L. Harrison
The handle is always cold, no matter the hour.
It has known more hands than I ever will— weddings, funerals, the in-between Sundays where nothing much happens except the keeping of time.
I pause before turning it, as though something inside might be waiting to notice.
The yew tree leans, as it always has, older than worry, older than names carved in stone.
Inside, the air holds its breath.
A hymn book rests open, as if someone has just stepped away and will be back any moment.
I do not stay long.
Just enough to feel the quiet settle, like dust in a beam of light.
When I leave, the door closes gently behind me—
as though it understands I will return, even if I don’t know when.