God & the pram

On a sunny but chilly November afternoon, I nearly turned to God.

Earlier that week we had just moved into a new apartment, which we had been waiting for- the apartment was bigger, brighter and quieter.

But the silence and the loneliness followed.

The more space meant more air to try and warm with the noisy, choking water heaters.

From the lounge room window I watch another family, their light is yellow and warm.

I ache with loneliness.

So on this quite, chilly afternoon, I get my unwell daughter to sleep in the pram and I decide to explore our new neighborhood.

I take a road that I walk past often, but have never gone down, which leads me to another, grander street. It boasts some of Berlin’s pre-war apartment buildings- which are beautiful. The balconies have curling wrought-iron fences- delicate flowers and lace made from something hard and cold. Little pudgy cherubs and beautiful, pre-Raphaelite women decorate the large doorways and windows.

I spot a church, a little greying-blue building. It’s architecture is similar to the apartment buildings but it is smaller, seemingly delicate.

I push past the people rugged up playing table tennis. I get to the door and I stop to fantasize about myself sitting on a pew. In my fantasy there is about one or two other people in there – older than me, one at the front, one at the back.

The idea of being together, under the same roof propels me to enter.

As I wheel the pram up to the steps I realize that I can’t get the pram through the fucking door.

So I turn the pram away and walk, hurriedly. Embarrassed. I laugh at myself as the tears stream involuntarily down my face.