A Pillar of the Church
It was like he lived there, or as if he had the key. I got to church extra early, somehow he always got there before me. He was old and growing feeble yet his languid figure seemed to be, the first sight every Sunday morning.
Regardless of what the elements presented, he never once delayed. Always prompt. For church was like his duty; the presence of dawn his cue.
You could barely catch him in the neighbourhood. I only saw him when he sat near the window of his wooden hut. Taking in the sweet sounds of nature, dozed-off in his squeaky old chair.
Sometimes if I missed him, I could distinguish him from a far. Even with just a glimpse of him, for his attire always looked so familiar. And even when you didn’t see him, everyone could still tell; that he had gotten to the church, for he made it his priority to ring the bell.
And then he would go in, taking his place at his preferred pew. This seemed to be his routine, until illness removed him as a member. Now bed-ridden, his service he could no longer render. And when he passed it seemed to be the closing of a chapter; the final notes a symphonic verse. But he will always be referred to as, a pillar of the church.
