He always practices now.

October 28th, 2013, 2pm

It was 15.6°C. The wind was light.

Those of us who know walk swiftly down the center aisle, dip a hand inside a pew and rotate the wooden latch. We genuflect, then swing the half-door open to a cushioned row. We sit and admire another section of the ivory reredos as the organist approaches the famous nocturne again.

Most afternoons the cathedral is his domain as he reworks phrases with different pedals. Tourists wander the outer aisles, let their flashes bounce off the altar, make sure they haven’t missed something grand, and pass each other like errant acolytes swishing down the opposite aisle. He seems not to notice - the short riffs continue. This is not a concert. There are concerts during lunch hours sometimes, but he plays best in the afternoon to a nave of randoms staring up at the columns with peeling paint from leatherette kneelers.

Sit close enough and you’ll sense the pressure from the massive pipes, the way subway trains feel through your shoes on the sidewalk. Bend your head, let the tears fall, there is no one here to see the middle of a song that will resolve, as sacred music does, on a major chord.

Christine, Adrian, Cassie, Allan and 10 others said thanks.

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Kristen Taylor

drinker of raw milk, founder/editor of @saucymag, call me @kthread

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