Holy Ghost

When the spirits call, will you heed them? Every church is a vessel inhabited by the murky slipstream of the living and the dead. When still, their chilling emptiness echoes, dust particles lazy dervishes illuminated by light. Curls of incense smoke trail from the golden dome of a censer, the gossamer cloak that once sanctified parishioners, now gives shape to their restless spirits. Their presence is electric, filling the hallowed husk of the church with energy that raises the tiny hairs on the back of your neck. The marble ambo beneath your hands is cool to the touch and powdery with dust. Cedar pews, once filled with devotees, are derelict, adding the scent of their sweet decay to the peculiar mélange in the air. The finish of a dry red wine blooms on your tongue, an apparition that is robust and tart, with a delicate tannic finish.