Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes

      With my father’s Maltese words, something inside of me broke loose, not my heart, something else. I began to crumble. My sense of being, of worth, of belonging, of identity began to flake from me. And Matt tried to hold me, to stick me back together.

      I married Matt when Christopher was eight months old.

      

      I betrayed my Maltese name.

       Erbg

a

      ~four

      

      ‘And here we have Liverpool Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King, known to the Merseyside locals as Paddy’s Wigwam. This is said to be linked to the large Irish Catholic congregation and the building’s architecutural design, which draws on that of a Native North American wigwam…’

      I first met Jesus in Liverpool.

      There are two cathedrals in Liverpool. The Metropolitan Cathedral stands proud; it lives in harmony with Liverpool Cathedral. The two majestic beings face each other along a street that is called Hope.

      

      When I first arrived, that street, that view, the two churches, made me feel safe. In Malta domes and steeples take over the skyline. On the corner of Hope, I felt closer to my island, to Malta, somehow.

      

      When I first arrived here, I was living in student halls just off Hope Street. I could see Catholic faith from my window. I could attend mass, be thankful, continue to grow.

      

      When I broke my promise, my mother’s heart, I refused to walk along that street called Hope, again. There were other routes, longer routes and I took them. I felt that to walk that street would be to play with my Lord, to tease, to laugh. I did not deserve to feel protected, safe, any more. It was my belief that in the insulting of my parents, my island, that I must also refuse that link with my Lord that connected my people.

      

      I did not realise, then, that my Lord was vengeful.

      At the end of Hope, tourists, visitors, students stand on grey pavement. They look up the stone steps to the concrete construction formed into a giant tepee of a Catholic cathedral. Tent poles stick out from the top, catching my Lord’s sunlight and my Lord’s tears.

      

      When I first arrived, I approved of the cathedral, the construction. A giant tent, connecting, sheltering and yet crafted into a fine-looking thing. There was something about the vast space, the structure, the contrasts: uniqueness.

      Three days ago I missed, I longed for my mother.

      

      I thought of the tepee of the cathedral.

      

      I did not understand the link.

      Three days ago, before this journey began, I found myself on the corner of Hope Street, Liverpool. My Lord was weeping, again. It was raining, I had no umbrella, my hair was curling, frizzing into a nest.

      

      I felt cold in my bones, shiver shiver, shiver shiver.

      

      ‘Welcome to Paddy’s Wigwam,’ I whispered.

      Three days ago, I stepped out into the road, not checking for cars.

      

      I thought of my Lord. I thought that if He was there, watching, listening, wanting, then He would do as He wished.

      

      Three days ago, I did not care.

      

      I had nothing.

      I walked a.

      

      ~z – ig.

      a.

      

       ~z – ag.

      across the road.

      

      Cars stopped, waited, beeped. Drivers moved their lips, cursing. I could not hear their words. Tourists gathered at the bottom of the grey steps. Some spilled from the shop, some stood very still, eyes fixed on the cathedral, mesmerised; others listened to a guide who spoke of architecture and history. I pushed through, I divided a tour of day-trippers, huddled under huge yellow umbrellas. I climbed the steps leading up to, down from, the overwhelming cathedral.

      The doors opened, automatically, dramatically, sensing my movements on the welcoming mat. I walked in, demanding, needing.

      I had been sitting, staring, searching the inside of the cathedral for some time. Father Sam knew me, he knew my grief, my rejection. He came to me, sat next to me, cupped my hands in his.

      

      ‘I’m being punished.’ I spoke in a hush, a respectful hush.

      

      ‘It doesn’t work like that.’ Father Sam spoke softly, carefully, his hands joined over mine. I remember seeing a blue ray reflecting over our hands. For a moment I dwelled on the light, on my Lord’s breath, on union.

      

      ‘I don’t trust your faith.’

      

      ‘Why Nina? Tell me,’ he asked.

      

      ‘I failed to keep a promise. I broke a promise to my parents, to my island.’

      

      And then, suddenly, I was sobbing and as I started, it grew, increased, my weeping was uncontrollable.

      

      the tears fell, my shoulders shuddered.

      

       ~shud – der.

       ~shud – der.

       ~shud – der.

      I was beyond restraint.

      

      ‘Tell me, Nina,’ he said.

      

      ‘I thought that I couldn’t cry any more, that I’d forgotten how,’ and with those hushed words all of the tears that had failed to be shed were released.

      

      My tears formed into a puddle.

      

      ‘We have choices in life, Nina. You are clearly distressed. You are living in a hell of your own making.’

      

      ‘My son, Christopher, has gone,’ I sobbed.

      

      ‘I know.’ Father Sam lowered his head and began reciting a prayer.

      

      ‘Please don’t.’ I began to rise. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t be here.’

      

      ‘You need to find your way, Nina. You need to allow God into your heart.’

      

      ‘I have nothing.’ I stood, I turned, my knees shook as I staggered towards the exit.

      

      ‘You have a husband, a daughter. Think of how you are affecting them, of the punishment that you are binding onto them.’

      

      I kept walking, ignoring his words, lurching towards the exit. I