My God Is A Fox
A contemplation on missing someone in the city of love.
Mon dieu est un renard.
Il m'aime. Il est fort pour moi. Il est mon coeur. Son corps est mon monde. Il est mon vie. Il est la raison que je suis vivant. Il est tout.
My god is a fox. He loves me. He's strong for me. He is my heart. His body is my world. He is my life. He is the reason I live. He is all. He is everything.
The cathedral is familiarly unfamiliar. The landmarks are all there, all of the functional places that remind me of my youth being shuffled in and out of pews still exist. The altar, the crosses, the creature with the painful-looking crown suspended on the cross. It's all the same, but writ large, literally in this sense. Tourists pass by me, chatting in a dozen languages. A small tiger child runs by me, parents nowhere to be seen, overly-large camera around his neck. He runs up to the nearest alcove, one of many around the periphery of the church, and snaps a photo, the flash of the camera going off in spite of the large "NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY" sign at the entrance.
There's a strange stillness in the bustle, however. Down in the middle of the cathedral, away from the tourists and the groups of students, there are rows upon rows of chairs. Spaced at random throughout the massive area are a few people, different species, different ages, presumably different backgrounds, all sitting quietly. Families gathered together, heads bowed in prayer. I watch for a few moments. I wonder what they're praying for. For health of a loved one, perhaps, or for a change in fate, or for some sense in a senseless, frightening world. The contrast between the two groups could not be more stark. One side comes to view the cathedral's history, learn of (or at least glance at) the countless kings and high leaders who set foot here, see the architecture of a building that took generations to build. The other side comes to perform a private communion with a believed spirit.
Somehow, even through my atheism, even through my distinct shunning of the Catholicism I was raised in, I feel a closeness to those sitting quietly. I may not be communing with the same powers that they are, but it's impossible not to feel the immense size and power of this place, and to find a bit of structure in your life in that feeling. I feel small in a way that I so rarely do - small in that my problems and my daily trials feel trivial. In a space this big, I am just one wolf, wandering through this new city.
I walk my way over to one of the banks of candles, and slide a coin into the "recommended donation" slot. My paws grasp at one of the wooden sticks, and bring it to the flame of one of the already-lit candles. I run through the procedure as if I've done it a million times over, lighting the stick and bringing it to a fresh candle, leaving some space between my new candle and the existing ones. As I touch the wick with the flame, I say a little prayer under my breath. Not a prayer to their god, but a prayer to mine. A wish I could be back home with him. A longing for his arms around me. A breath of his scent, the touch of his fur against mine, the longing of our bodies coming together again after time apart.
The flame grows, and I blow out the little wooden stick, depositing it back in the holder to be used again for someone else's hope. I turn away from the candles, leaving a few families saying their prayers behind me. I do the sign of the cross across my chest quickly as I leave, for a moment afraid as if the people all around me could suddenly see that I was praying to the wrong god. But nobody notices. My muzzle turns back downwards and I find my way back to the center of the cathedral. The chairs are comfortable enough, so I sit to catch my breath a little.
We'll make it through this, just like we did every time before. I can hear him reassuring me in that beautiful voice of his in my head. You'll be home again, you'll be with me. I close my eyes and I'm almost right there.
The wind blows frigid air across my face as I exit, passing the countless new people coming in. I duck into a cafe across the Seine, and am comforted by the smells and sounds of espresso. I sit at a table by the window and watch the passersby as I sip my drink. You'd love it here.
I love you, fox.